Walk on Water
by Guardian Kysra
Summary: Raven is losing the internal war against her father since birth. As her secrets consume her, she’ll find that her greatest strength is not found in her three magic words but the four people who are closest to her. Subtle RobRae Ravencentric.
1. Necessity

**_Walk on Water_**

_By Kysra_

Prologue: Necessity

_-Azarath, three years ago-_

It was a sad thing when all of the fires were lit at Temple, for it meant someone had left for another plane of existence. This time, it was the Venerable Azar, and several moons before it had been Arella. Sabe could only hope her new charge would not join them through her heart break.

Softly, wool grey robes billowing behind her and disturbing the dirt covered ground, the young woman made her way through the orchards to the stone path that would take her to the center of worship and education, knowing that she would find what she had inadvertently lost when she arrived there.

The first time this had happened she had woken with the knowledge that something was missing from her home. It had been the night after the Venerable One's leave-taking from this dimension, a fortnight since the Earth woman's, and rationale told Sabe that - perhaps - it was lingering grief that forced her instincts to come alive at that moment. Several hours later had found her yet restless, and finally she rose to travel the length and breadth of her house to find that young Raven had disappeared from her bed. Indeed, upon further inspection, she had gone from the entire domicile.

Sabe had been frantic, afraid for the girl the peoples of Azarath seemed to at once pity, loathe, and fear. The child had been given the benefit of few caretakers from the moment of her birth. She had been prohibited from contact with her mother and isolated from the other children throughout her thirteen years of life with only Azar to keep her company. And yet, with the loss of her mother and mentor, both women expiring violently at the hands of the demon Trigon, the girl had not shown any sign of trauma, emotional or otherwise. She had been trained well, perhaps too well, and Sabe had instantly feared for Raven's safety. However, the search through the rubble of Trigon's attack yielded nothing, and Sabe had begun to make the trek home when the firelight shining from the temple caught her attention. Somehow, the instant her eyes had met the moon-white outline of Temple against the night dark, her mind was relieved with the knowledge that young Raven must have sought solitude and sanctuary there rather than seeking communion with the Venerable One.

And so it had occurred again and again, night after night, but this night would be the last for it marked the end of Azar's Lighting. Tonight, Raven would have no choice but to say good-bye.

A melancholy smile marked Sabe's newly scarred face for a moment before her hands pushed against the heavy wooden doors to find Raven's dark figure kneeling before the Spirit Flame, the blue tongues seeming to cloak her in a fiery aura. Padding silently, the older woman knelt beside the somber little girl, mindful to put enough distance between them to be unobtrusive while remaining close enough to be felt.

Together they stared at the dancing azure flames, neither speaking, daring no movement. Sabe had long grown accustomed to Raven's silence and blank stares, therefore she was quite surprised when the girl's strangely flat violet eyes turned to her and a heavy, almost gravelly voice broke the peaceful quiet of night and devotional serenity, "The one who did this . . The demon that Azar died to seal, he's my father."

The assuring smile poised on Sabe's lips slid easily into a gaping 'o'. "Who told –"

Pale eyelids closed gravely over the vibrant iris as Raven rose gracefully to her feet, her hands cradling a little wooden box. "No one told me. I saw it in a dream."

Following after, Sabe tripped on the hem of her robes as the diminutive half-demon began to walk away, shoulders hunched beneath the pristine white of her night dress. "What are you going to do?"

"He will come for me again." It was a calm statement of fact. "I will have to fight him, and I'm too weak to defeat him on my own."

Hands reaching out uselessly to hold this precious, terrific child, Sabe grasped at the air between them, "The priests of Azarath will not aid you, not even to defend themselves."

Raven paused before the Temple doors to look over her shoulder, the bright strands of her hair falling over her eyes, shadowing them. "I know. I overheard them planning to send me to Earth. I have decided to seek allies there on my own."

"Raven . . . Little bird, you are only a child –"

"I thank you for taking care of me, but there is nothing left for me here. I will not sit back as he tries to destroy everything, and I will not allow him to use me to do it."

Then she was gone, and Sabe was left with the feeling that she would never see her ward again.

_-Earth_, _approximately a week later-_

Blowing into her cold hands, Raven looked up to the sky, watching the snow fall and her breath freeze for a few moments while trying to ignore the noise and crunch of people on the sidewalk. _Too many people . . . _She felt vaguely overwhelmed, what little hope she had entertained within the first few days of crossing to this alien plane shattering with the resounding refusal she had experienced earlier that day. _Evil . . . Zantana said I was evil . . . _

It was a bitter pill. One that she had yet to fully comprehend and internalize. She had been told all her life - by Azar, by the priests - that she must control her emotions for her power was such that, if left uncontrolled and undisciplined, she was a danger to everyone and everything around her. The word "evil" had never been uttered, just as her true demonic heritage had never been revealed by those she had grown to trust. She was simply different, and Azar had taken great pains to make her believe that being different was nothing to be ashamed of.

Now . . . Raven wasn't sure what to believe anymore, and if the broken windows, vase, and mussed control room the Justice League now had to clean up was any indication, her confusion and raw hurt needed to be resolved and fast. _Meditation . . . I need to meditate. Is there no quiet place on Earth?_

She was beginning to think there wasn't. Someone or something was always making some obnoxious sound. Even in the dead of night there were airplanes overhead, stray dogs barking at the moon, the odd vagrant pursuing a drink or stumbling drunkenly into a trash can, or the scream of someone being attacked. Alone and penniless, she had observed it all from dark corners and darker alleys, melting into the safety of the shadows, dwelling in the cold and searching for a sign that her mission wasn't in vain.

Now, only a few days into her willful adventure, she was weary and strained to the breaking point. The heavy weave of her white cloak and woolen robes sheltered her away from the winter cold, and she could subsist for a substantial amount of time without food; but she was beginning to miss the soothing smell and bland taste of Azar's special brew. More importantly, she had neither the time nor opportunity to retreat inside herself to subdue the unsettled emotions hiding behind her eyes. If she did not find somewhere to rest and center herself soon, innocent people would be hurt . . . or, at least, innocent property would be irreparably damaged.

Sighing softly, she pulled her hood up and resumed her walk around the city, wandering aimlessly for any place occupied by less than three people, trying not to think about the League's rejection and failing miserably. If a united group of super-heroes, sworn to protect humanity, wasn't willing to help her . . . _Who am I going to turn to now?_ She didn't want to think there was no one, didn't want to believe that Azar's death had left her truly alone; but the reality was that she was a thirteen year old half-demon lost in a foreign dimension attempting to secure some form of aid in protecting the human race from her purely evil father.

_I would reject me too._

Raising her chin, she steeled her back bone and probed the little parcel tucked into the crux of one elbow. Azar would be disappointed in her. _No giving up, Raven; not when you haven't even begun to fight._ It didn't matter if the Justice League wouldn't help her. They were only one group. There must be others, individuals, someone; but she would worry about that later.

First, she needed to meditate before she did something conspicuous - like cause one of those monstrous four-wheeled contraptions (_a "car"?)_ to explode.

-_WoW_-

When he found her, she was half-frozen and nearly delirious with hunger, her desperation tempered by the meditative trance she had forced herself into. It was her fifteenth day on Earth, and her carelessness had beckoned some unsavory vagabonds to the wooden box she so protectively clasped to her chest. She had struggled against them, wary of using her powers against ignorant humans and unwilling to unleash it when she was so tired, unsettled; and they had almost succeeded in taking her most treasured possession when a lithe figure dropped from the heavens and downed the two thugs within meager seconds.

She had been impressed by this person's form and skill, had risen shakily on trembling legs to say so, the box holding Azar's rings clutched tightly within the circle of her arms. Before she could thank her new hope, before she could ask for help against her father, the figure stepped into the angled light of a flood lamp.

He was gangly - young, maybe her age, possibly a bit older - with long limbs and an awkward if sturdy build highlighted by the a red and green spandex outfit. His hair was pure ebony and rather messily spiked while his face held the promise of sharp angles and strong lines beneath lingering baby fat though the eyes were covered by a black and white mask. She noted that his yellow cape must be weighted as it seemed to fall around him rather than fluidly shifting with movement or floating on the slight breeze.

"Are you ok?" His voice was clear but welcoming, a bit of rainbow upon the heavy stench of open sewer and exhaust fumes.

Raven nodded slowly, her eyes jumping from his face to the men lying motionless on the ground, her mind whirling with a hundred different feelings. A nearby fire escape began to rattle dangerously as it was encapsulated in negative energy.

His brow dimpled as he seemed to look straight at her, "You're the one they - the Justice League - refused to help, aren't you?"

She tried to speak, but it was too much, too fast with no time to get herself under control. In a last ditch effort, she closed her eyes and forced herself into a rhythm of deep breathing exercises. The masked boy said nothing, allowing her the time she needed to find - at least - a temporary respite from the inner turmoil that had been building up since she first arrived; and she was grateful for his compassion, whether knowing or not.

"Thank you," she spoke through clinched teeth, "and yes. I'm looking for help against Trigon the Destroyer."

His smile at that moment was like the sun rising. It had been so very long since anyone had smiled at her without fear or suspicion, "I think I might be able to help you. Cyborg and I are trying to organize a junior super hero group - the Teen Titans. Interested?"

She could not help the very slight widening of her eyes nor the stirring of something warm in her heart, but she owed it to this boy to be honest, if only for the rings she still held. Pointing to the still trembling fire escape, her voice whispered, "I'm dangerous."

Shooting a cocky grin at her, the boy held out his hand to take one of hers, and she became instantly aware that she could trust him. "I'm willing to take the risk," he stated.

Ill accustomed to such calm and ignorant acceptance, Raven's face remained impassive though her insides shook with incredulity. She needed to impress upon him the gravity of her purpose for being there, for seeking aid from Earth's finest. "Even if it means the world?"

He shrugged and began to pull her towards the street. "Only makes the fight worthwhile."

Continuing her deep breathing exercises, the tense, repetitious scrape of metal against brick quieted as she allowed this unknown boy to take her to Azar-knows-where, but for the first time since coming to Earth, she wasn't uneasy or afraid. Certainly his bravado was somewhat worrisome, but his manner was so simple, so _kind_. She couldn't think of a reason not to follow him.

And she never once looked back.

To be continued . . .

**Author's Note:** This fic will be like a comic/animated series fusion with elements from both used, altered, or discarded completely. Hopefully it will come together with relatively little need for explanation. This will be a Robin/Raven fic, but it will be EXTREMELY subtle. Like, insanely subtle. Think: intense friendship (and more). It's more Raven-centric than anything else.

The theme for this chapter is Crossfade's "No Giving Up." The lyrics:

_So you found out today your life's not the same  
Not quite as perfect as it was yesterday but  
When you were just getting in the groove  
Now you're faced with something new  
And I know it hurts and I know you feel torn  
But you never gave up this easily before  
So why do you choose today to give it all away _

Well it's not so bad y'all  
Together we all fall  
Just as long we get up we'll stand tall  
We shouldn't waste another day  
Thinking 'bout the things that we forgot to say

I'm hittin' back y'all  
Kickin' these four walls  
Just as hard as I can til I can't crawl  
I won't waste another day  
With all these silly things  
Swimmin' in my brain

Chorus

There's no giving up now

_Do you really want to give this all away  
Can't you ever see things in a different way  
Somedays  
No giving up now  
Such a beautiful thing to throw away  
You should think things through  
Over and over again  
All over again _

So your scars fade away  
You soaked up the pain  
A better person 'cause you lived through those days  
And now you know what it's like to prove  
You can overcome anything that gets to you  
Well it's alright  
We're sayin' our goodbyes  
To the past and everything that ain't right  
We won't waste another day  
With all these silly things in our way

Chorus

I know we have given  
All that we can give  
When there's nothing to lean on  
Well, I remember this  
All we make of this lifetime  
Is always here within  
And remembering that's why  
We should never give in

Chorus

There's no giving up now


	2. Critical Point

**_Walk on Water_**

_By Kysra_

Chapter One: Critical Point

_-Six Months After the Events of "Birthmark"-_

It had been a mistake. She never should have accepted Robin's offer all those years ago, because - somewhere along the way - her purpose for coming to Earth had become secondary to the daily struggle of crime fighting till it was all but forgotten, smothered by the attachments she had made; and, more importantly, it was her attachments to the four misfits that were going to lead her to the fall. Azar had spent the last years of her life keeping Raven away from all unnecessary contact, preventing her from forming any sort of emotional ties; and Raven herself had shattered all of that effort without so much as a thought to the consequences.

_But this isn't the first time I've felt affection for someone_. No, she had loved Azar, loved her mother. It had been her best kept secret all those years ago, her guilty pleasure, and it was that small measure of feeling she had rationalized as acceptable that had beckoned her father to her. It was that tiny bit of affection she had been able to squeeze past Azar's detection that was to blame for their deaths and the end of peace in Azarath.

Staring down at her palms, Raven searched the clear, death-pale skin for the angry red markings Slade had burned into her six months ago. _All my fault . . . They died and it was all my fault._ And as it was her love that killed Azar and Arella, it would be her love that killed her friends.

And she did love them. They were the only ones to truly accept her outside of Azar and her mother. They were also the only people that had ever looked at her without expectation, suspicion, fear, or calculation. With them, she was simply expected to be Raven - even if all they saw was her calm surface. She wasn't some renegade demon's daughter, not a disgusting half-breed bitch harboring a soul of darkness, nor was she a tool of power meant to bring the apocalypse to them. She was their friend, and she trusted them - even Beastboy, who sometimes managed to provoke her beyond her shaky control.

_If only they knew how long it took me to accept that they believed me to be a friend. If only they knew how __long and how much it has cost me to put my trust in them._

And to preserve them, to protect them, she needed distance, needed to remove herself from them somehow. Running away would accomplish nothing, therefore the idea was discarded out of hand. Robin knew of every place she was familiar with on Earth. It wouldn't take the Titans long to track her down, and she was not so far gone within her doldrums that she would think for a moment that they would simply abandon her.

Retreating to Azarath would be useless as well. There would be no one to help her there, and Raven knew there were no guarantees that the priests would allow her to stay. Besides, the only friendly face that would greet her if she did return to her home dimension was Sabe, and Raven could not be certain if her last caretaker was still alive. . . . And if she _was_ still alive, Raven would not be the cause of her death.

Going back would draw Trigon (and possibly Slade) there, and she did not wish the two on anyone, least of all the peaceful souls of Azarath. No, better to stay on Earth where there was an army of super heroes at the ready.

_Besides, it's _my_ problem. No one else's. I have to deal with this by myself . . . _

Killing herself was out of the question. Certainly there was some rationale in the idea - dying would stop Trigon in his tracks. But it was only a temporary halt. The years had given her time to think about her position, her father's, and the several factors that could make or break her efforts in ridding the universe of Trigon's influence; and she was reasonably sure that there were others, seeds planted by Trigon just waiting to do his bidding. Whether they were as stubborn as she was in resisting him, she could not know; but there were no guarantees that one of her theoretical half-siblings would succeed where she failed.

Suicide would only remove his - heretofore, known - staunchest enemy: herself. While there was still a chance she could defeat him and come out alive, she wasn't going to take any desperate measures.

So that left leaving the Titans behind.

_Easier said than done_, she thought with a sigh. If she tried to resign they would try to convince her to stay.

When she refused to back down, they would attempt to help her find a place to stay in order to keep tabs on her. It would be as useless a venture as running away or making the jump back to Azarath.

Sighing again, Raven's hands traced the plain white oak surface of the box that held Azar's rings before opening it to see the glinting twin gold pieces, searching the suspended jewelry for guidance. She was only left with one option: Somehow, she must provoke them into kicking her out, make them dislike her so much they wouldn't dream of worrying over her let alone track her down.

_Again, easier said than done_. Strategy would entail subtly as well as speed. She couldn't afford to stay here much longer. Her father's power had been increasing steadily for the past few months - since Slade had delivered his "message." However, she couldn't afford to alert the others to her plans. Robin knew her best (if he could claim to know her at all), so she would have to be extremely careful around him. Cyborg was also prone to noticing something off about her since he sometimes acted the reluctant big brother/parental figure. She would tread lightly and hope for the worst.

And as she began to plan her methods of attack, she tried not to think of the inevitable result, because she wanted nothing more than to stay with them . . . with her family.

_-Two years ago, Christmas-_

Raven had been educated in many Earth traditions, Christmas being one of them, though she had never actually celebrated it. Her eyes caught on the colorful tinsel and shining lights as her fingers feathered across the leaves of their newly decorated tree. Christmas carols teased her ears and the smell of pine and hot chocolate assailed her nostrils.

Everyone's faces seemed to crack with continuous smiles - as if one wasn't allowed to be unhappy at this time of year. She felt slightly guilty for her dour expression and refusal to wear "festive" clothing, but she really didn't know how to communicate to them that, even though her countenance remained pale and deadpan, she _was_ happy to be there - with them. As for the clothes, the long forgotten words of the priests of Azarath and the more recent indictment of Zantana still echoed in her head - _evil . _. _child of shadows . . spawn of the darkness_, and she had chosen her colors accordingly. Pitch black leotard covered by a midnight blue cloak - darkness and shadows.

Settling on the new sofa and relishing the synthetic scent of the pleather (Beast Boy would not abide the mere notion of sitting on something that came from a fellow animal), she lifted a chance book into her lap though her attention remained on the cheerful bickering behind and to the left of her. Something about milk-less sugar cookies . . .

It was at times like these that she felt most isolated - with people right there within reach, knowing she was not allowed to touch. It was at times like these that she wished she were someone else. It was at times like these that she truly wondered if Zantana might be right. Only evil people were destined to suffer alone, right?

"Hey, Dark Girl." A silver hand playfully pulled at the back of her raised hood before Cyborg knelt before her perch on the sofa, his brown face smiling wildly, warmly.

She had to fight an impromptu wrestling match in her mind to keep from smiling back. "Cyborg."

He tweaked her nose lightly. "Wanna join us for the gift opening?"

Voice dammed in her throat, she nodded then moved to rise. Even after an entire year, after working closely with Robin and Cyborg to build the Tower then meeting Beast Boy (eventually adopting him) and accepting Starfire into the fold, she knew it was too much to expect that she would become accustomed to their constant company, their kindness and attention. Not after a lifetime of reinforced loneliness. Not after being barred from the socialization process for the safety of all parties. And she was continually amazed at their determined persistence and patience when it came to including her in their activities and leaving her be when it was apparent that she needed to be alone.

Huddled in her cloak, she felt shy amidst their rosy faces, bright grins, and brighter holiday attire, but no one seemed to mind as they took their places at the foot of the Christmas tree - complete with "1st Christmas" ornament. Seated between Beast Boy and Cyborg on the carpeted floor, Raven found herself in the middle of their little semicircle and with the best view of her companions, the tree and small pile of presents beneath it.

As their leader (and the person closest to the tree), Robin acted the part of Santa Claus and began to pass out the gifts. Raven watched the parcels passing hands and struggled with a jolt of apprehension. _What if they don't like what I gave them?_ It was a superficial question, but she had been unprepared for the season and knew little of what was appropriate in gift giving since the only gift she had ever received was Azar's rings and the only gift she had ever given was her obedience.

But her expression never changed and from their faces she could not discern dislike for her selections. Indeed, Cyborg seemed pleased with his subscription to Hot Rod magazine. (It would be weeks before she found out he already had one.) Robin smiled graciously when he unpacked the wrist guards she had wrapped in green and yellow tissue. (It had never occurred to her that his gloves were already equipped with the necessary support.) Starfire squealed with delight and flew to embrace her when she revealed the pastel pink and white pajama set Raven had taken great pains to pick out for her Tamaranian "friend." (How was she supposed to know that the red head was allergic to Earth cotton?) Beast Boy beared his teeth in a wicked grin and crowed, "Good One!" when his _paws_ found the scratching post. (She didn't realize until much later that he thought she had intended it as a joke.)

She had expected nothing in return - not that she doubted their innate goodness and willingness to give, but because she believed herself unworthy. However, they surprised her with a single package neatly wrapped in silver and gold foil paper. It wasn't until Beast Boy nudged her with his elbow and Robin ordered her to open it that she realized she was staring quizzically at the shiny box as if it were a puzzle she did not wish to solve.

Slowly, her fingers gingerly peeled away the folds and removed the lid. There, lying amidst red and purple tissue was a golden, tasseled belt decorated with deep red stones with a matching broach that advertised the silhouette of a raven's head. _How did they know red was my favorite color?_

Swallowing heavily, her eyes raised to study each Titan in turn, only to find them staring at her. And as her eyes returned to her precious gift, she noticed that the lead medallion of the belt held an inscription: _From your family._

"Thank you," she murmured gravely.

_Thank you_, she whispered shakily in her mind.

_-The present (Seven Months after the events of "Birthmark")-_

Despite Cyborg's adamant suggestions, Raven had refused to throw out the leotard Slade had seemed bent on ruining on her birthday. It was a reminder of why she was walking down this path, a justification for the harsh glares, broken dishes, casual insults, and erratic fighting patterns she had given, caused, spoken, and initiated since her decision to urge her own expulsion had been made.

Extricating herself from the Titans was possibly the most difficult thing she had ever done. Leaving Azarath had been a cake walk in comparison - probably due to the fact that, back then, she had had nothing to lose. Now, she had a family, a support system which she had unconsciously begun to depend upon, and though she knew it was for the best, the prospect of being without them scared her shitless.

Even more frightening was her lax control.

There had been times within the recent past when she thought her powers would slip out of her grasp due to lack of sleep and meditation. The nightmares were keeping her up at night, dogging her when she sought her center. The added stress and prospect of a lonely quest ahead was not exactly helping.

Pulling the folds of her cloak closer around her body, Raven made her way out of the darkness of her room to the light of the kitchen and was not surprised when she saw Robin already sitting at the table with a mug of coffee in hand. It was 5 am, and he was always the first to rise.

"Couldn't sleep?" His tone suggested normality. His aura told of deep concern.

"Something like that," she answered, perfunctorily turning her back to him and his unwanted interest.

His sigh was heavy between them, "What's going on with you lately?"

She neglected to respond, willing her hand not to tremble as cold fingers twisted the knob on the stove to heat her kettle.

"You've been different since your birthday." The sound of his chair scratching against the linoleum then the warmth of him behind her made Raven's nerves jump. He wasn't going to let it go. "What did he do to you?"

_Slade_. The man's name sent unwanted chills down her spine and made it necessary to clamp down hard on her emotions. She wouldn't fail in her purpose. She wouldn't take any unnecessary chances. She had already gambled her limit.

_I'm so tired._ "Nothing." _Just tell me I'm safe, again. I'll believe it if it comes from you. _"Leave me alone."

She turned only to find him blocking her way, and found herself replaying the memory of those moments when her bed had seemed aflame and a scream was torn from her throat. He had come to her then, his brow knitted with worry, his voice pleading. But what stood out was the arms he splayed across her doorway, the wide stance of his body spanning her threshold as if he were shielding her from whatever it was that had made her afraid enough to call out so clearly.

"It's not nothing if it's tearing you apart." Somewhere in the vicinity of the rec. room, a few glass objects shattered.

_So . . . he knows I'm acting out . . . Plan B._ Looking straight into Robin's mask, Raven schooled her features into a scowl, "You should be worrying about your team."

He leaned back away from her as the kettle began to whistle behind them, "You are a part of _my _team."

Pushing her way past him, she didn't bother to look back as she spit out, "No. I quit."

-WoW-

"I don't know what to do anymore." The confession took Cyborg by surprise, so much so that the wrench in his hand fell to the ground with an unnoticed clatter. Looking up at the Boy Wonder, the cybernetic man adopted an expression of disbelief. The leader of the Teen Titans _never_ admitted he didn't know - at least - not without some plan to figure out how to get/find whatever seemingly hopeless piece of information he was searching for.

"Is this about Raven again? Man, leave her be. We just gotta accept that we'll never understand her." Ever since Raven had embarked on her personal warpath, there had been many secret conferences and conversations conducted on the subject of how to deal with her escalating destructive behavior.

Robin was sitting on the R-cycle, a frown bowing his mouth, "It's not that. She's been different ever since her birthday, ever since Slade returned."

Brow cocked, Cyborg leaned against the T-car, arms crossed, "Rob, she doesn't want to talk about what happened, and we can't force her. It'll just push her away. That girl's got secrets that she guards with her life."

"And they're killing her." It was said in a low voice - somber, serious, poignant.

Cyborg let out a long breath. "What do you want to do?"

Running a hand through his already unruly hair, the masked young man bowed his head. "It may be too late to do anything,"

Cyborg's entire frame went rigid, his mouth a harsh line as his voice spoke, deep and tense, "What do you mean?"

"She quit."

"What!"

Silence - calm mockery.

"You have to talk to her, Rob. She seems to trust you the most."

"I tried, Cy. She won't crack."

"Look, I'll get BB and Star out of the Tower. You'll have to corner her. She won't talk if you leave her a way out."

The two Titans shared a determined look before Robin shifted his head to stare straight ahead and murmured, "She still thinks she's alone, doesn't she?"

There was a note of sadness in Cyborg's voice as he answered, "I think it's the fact that she's not alone and knows it that's the problem."

-WoW-

Cinderblock was on the loose - again, and Raven was left alone in the Tower to pack her meager possessions. It had taken every shred of control over her body not to run/fly/_respond_ along with the others when the alarm sounded, just as it was taking every shred of control over her emotions not to cry, scream, and throw the very heavy, very breakable masks decorating her room.

_I don't want to be saved, I don't want to be saved, Idon'twanttobesaved, I –_

"YAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHH!" The heat of her desperation filled her, overflowing like so much lava out of her pours in waves of unadulterated energy. Her windows blew outward as her arms swept the Greek stone masks away from her and onto the floor where they disintegrated into tiny fragments.

Doubled over and clutching her head, Raven focused on catching her breath as she repeated her favorite mantra, the unfamiliar burn of tears threatening to fall. _Alone. I have to do this alone. I can handle it. I can handle everything by myself. I don't need help. I want them to be safe. I want them to live long, happy lives even if it means I'll only live on in their memories._

Straightening, having regained her forced calm, she took care to place the little box containing Azar's rings into her bag before adding her mirror and zipping it up. She had decided to conduct this sojourn as a human and, therefore, neglected to transfer the heavy pack into a pocket dimension. _Yet I refuse to change into street clothes,_ she thought wryly.

She had wanted to wait till the others returned, however, she was honest enough with herself to realize that it was probably best if she did not face them to say goodbye. Starfire's tears had always cut her deep, and she didn't think she would be able to bear it if Beast Boy asked her to stay. The real danger in personally resigning, though, was Cyborg and Robin. Cyborg would be accepting, she knew, but he would also pull at her with words. Robin would use all of his knowledge to persuade her not to stay but to _postpone_ leaving until he could concretely convince her to remain a Teen Titan.

But they weren't there, and Raven was relieved of it. They're absence made a difficult situation just a bit easier, and she took her time saying farewell to the Tower - her first real home. And there was no mistake - the five of them had made a _home_ here. They ate their meals together, trained together, played together, worked together, fought together, learned together, annoyed each other, and supported each other, constantly trying to understand one another, protect each other, and form a network of trust. There had been good times and bad, memorable times and . . . not-so-memorable, but there was always respect, loyalty, and . . . affection even through the numerous arguments and periods of uncertainty.

She traveled the hollowed halls silently, hand skimming the surface of the metallic wall at her right, reveling in the feelings her friends had imprinted upon the air day in and day out since they had come here. _So many beautiful colors . . . _

"Raven?"

She halted mid-step, her shoulders bunching beneath her cloak. _I should have felt him . . . _but she had been too distracted by her own inner turmoil and the strains of emotion zinging around and through her.

"Robin. Everyone is well, I trust." She refused to look at him, refused to give him any hint of her reluctance to leave.

The metal cleats attached to his feet meeting the floor rang noisily in her ears as he approached her. "It was Cinderblock. The others are out getting pizza."

She gritted her teeth behind blanched lips as her hands came up to raise her hood, wanting to hide. "Why aren't you with them?" _Don't leave me alone. I might go crazy._

"You don't want to leave, but you feel you have to." She hated it when he took that confident tone with her.

"Since when are you a mind reader?" _Why do you have to be so damn right? _

"I know you, Raven." And she could tell the confidence wasn't feigned. He truly felt as if he did know her, understood her - as much as she allowed him to, anyway.

_You know what I let you know . . . _"You know nothing about me." _Nothing important._ _I will not risk your life or the others any more than I already have._

"Then tell me why you want to leave." His hands were strong, forceful upon her tense shoulders as he urged her around to face him. Focusing her gaze on the line of his jaw, she clenched her teeth harder as she tried to control the reflex to release the power locked within her soul.

"Nothing holds me here." _Except everything that I value in this life._

"So you don't need help against Trigon, anymore?"

Her eyes immediately shot up to meet the iridescent lenses covering his. _He . . . remembers? _He had never mentioned Trigon in the whole three years of their acquaintance. Not once. She had believed he had dismissed the slip of her purpose in coming to Earth as unworthy of his attention - he had been so busy organizing and planning back then that she had wondered if he slept at all during that first year.

Raven swallowed heavily but seemed unable to push an acerbic response past her tongue, and her pause gave Robin the opportunity to shift gears into murkier territory. His strategy: keep the dark bird unbalanced for as long as possible.

"What did he do to you?"

_Stopitstopitstopit! I don't want to think about Slade! I don't to think about him or Trigon or my birthday! Just. STOP. Bringing. It. Up._ Raven's eyes widened slightly before collapsing into accusing slits. "I don't have to talk about this."

"Yes. You do." And suddenly she found herself struggling physically against him, hood thrown back, her wrists in his hands, her back against the wall. But she wouldn't back down. Her glare deepened.

"You aren't the boss of me, Robin. And I won't be a slave to your obsession." _That's it. Make him feel guilty. Make him think you don't trust that his concern is genuine rather than opportunistic._

But she was disappointed for he didn't look hurt, and his hold on her didn't lessen. Instead, the mask seemed to narrow as his mouth became a determined line. "I'm your friend."

_Give nothing away. Keep up the attack. He'll tire sooner or later. _"So that entitles you to know everything about me? It works both ways, Boy Wonder."

Robin decided to switch tactics. "Whatever he said or did is obviously bothering you. Let me hel -"

"I said, 'I don't have to talk about this.'" Her chin was set as she lashed out with her right foot which he easily sidestepped. It was a half-hearted attempt, he noticed with a critical eyes, a sign that he was getting to her. Her mind wasn't engaged with him or his words but the emotions she needed to control, and though he felt mildly cruel, he continued in his psychological assault, waiting for the inevitable slip.

"But you want to."

_So much, Robin. So much._ "Stop trying to psychoanalyze me." But she could tell the order fell on deaf ears. He wasn't going to back down, and he wasn't going to let it go. And - secretly - she was grateful for his stubborn need to know everything about everyone he cared about.

"Raven," he took care with his tone, "what did Slade do to you to make you think we wouldn't understand?"

His gaze (what she could deduce of it with the mask) never left her face.

_Everything I've feared since I found out my father is an evil demon bent on destroying the human race and subjugating the universe with my help. _"Nothing."

"I know it's not nothing. Nothing doesn't cause torn clothes, spontaneous hair growth, and paranoid erratic behavior." The hands on her wrists loosened and traveled to her shoulders, resting their gently, massaging lightly. A sign of assurance and comfort.

Raven would not be cajoled. The ultimate price was entirely too high. "If you _know_, why are you asking _me_? I quit. I'm leaving. See you in another life." Shrugging him off, she began to melt into the floor.

But Robin wasn't nearly finished with her, and his supply of ammunition had yet to reach middling let alone low. He decided that a random observation was called for, a strategic change of subject to keep her there and listening. "Why isn't red your favorite color anymore?"

Her descent immediately stopped before she rose to level again, incredulous. "What?"

At least he had her attention. He stared her down, his stance relaxed, hands hanging benignly at his sides. He wanted her to know that there was no threat here, and - as he had hoped - the question coupled with his non-combative attitude seemed to unbalance her.

"It . . . I . . . "

Now was the time to go in for the kill. "What happened on your birthday, Raven?"

"He . . . delivered a message, from Trigon . . ." She blinked rapidly, trying to get her bearings, the unraveling threads of her control seeming to prevent the process of clear comprehension.

Stepping closer to her, Robin was mindful of the danger her flustered state presented. He just didn't care. "And the message?"

Taking a deep breath, Raven bundled her hands into the material of her cloak as if it could anchor her despite her dwindled self-restraint. She raised her chin, a decidedly rebellious set to her usually formless mouth. "It isn't something that I want to share."

Robin's face hardened imperceptibly. "But you're going to."

"No. I'm not." _I wish I could. Why couldn't _you_ be the mind reader?_

Obviously, it was time to pull out the big guns. "Trigon's a demon. A powerful one. Isn't he?"

Raven was rarely ever surprised by anything, and the gasp she let escape told him all he needed to know as the pieces of the puzzle - incomplete as it was and would yet remain for the time being - began to fall into place.

"Slade knew it was your birthday."

She stepped back into the wall behind her as if to run away for dear life, and Robin followed, cornering her against the unyielding metal. He briefly wondered - if she was so desperate to get away from him, from his questions and theories - why didn't she just phase through the wall? But she didn't, and he had ideas he wanted to share. "So, unless he had been hacking deeply into our systems before his 'death,' he would have had to find out through someone else."

Through clenched teeth, she spoke softly, dangerously, "What are you getting at?"

"It wasn't a coincidence, was it? Your birthday, Slade's return, and the message from Trigon." It was more a statement than a question. He knew he was right, and she knew that he knew he was right.

"No." The word deflated her as she seemed to collapse in upon herself. It was almost as if all of her energy had been committed to denying him, but her will had died when the opposite was verbalized. Robin suddenly wondered if this was how she lived every second of every day - mind saying one thing, heart screaming another, with no compromise.

"Promise me you won't leave just yet. I want to help you." _Let me do this for you, Raven. Let us be your strength for once. Let yourself need and accept us._

The response was well-rehearsed and automatic as she curled into the dark material wrapped around her. "No one can help me. It's my problem."

"And your problems are our problems. That's how families work, Raven." It was a risk to say such a thing, he knew, but it had been the right thing to say. Her eyes met his, and he wondered if she could sense that he was looking directly into the flat, dull violet of hers.

"Don't you think I would stay if I could?" It was only the second time he had heard that note of emphatic hopelessness in her voice, and it caught at him just as it had when she had called his name in a panic when he had been sandwiched between two huge asphalt boulders just before they had made a run for the church on her birthday.

Softly, gently, he reached out to take her hands even as she lowered her face to the floor, speaking just as softly and gently, "Why can't you?"

He was disappointed when she didn't answer, but seemed in danger of performing an impromptu jig when the murmur of her grousing reached him.

"Fine. I'll stay, but it's temporary. As soon as I find somewhere else to be, I'm leaving." _I know you and the rest are going to regret this. _

He smiled for her since he knew she wouldn't even if she could. "All I ask is that you give us a chance to help you figure it out."

Pulling her hands from his, she nodded sharply. "You have it. I'm going to my room now." Because, she would have to clean that mess after all.

Robin watched her walking away, deeper into the shadowed corridor, something niggling at his brain as he called, "Hey, you never answered my question."

Pausing, Raven's cloak flowed out and swished around her petite frame as she half-turned to face him again, waiting.

"Why isn't red your favorite color anymore?" He could see the whites of her eyes widen and glow momentarily before the somber monotone met his ready ears with a simple, perplexing answer.

"Because it's the color of my eyes."

To be continued . . .

**Author's Notes:** Thank you to everyone who reviewed. To answer a few questions/comments from the reviews: see notes below for what comes from the comics; I wouldn't say Rob/Rae will be like Mulder and Scully exactly . . .; I have no control over how long any given chapter will be; and no, I'm not going through the entire TT history as this fic will only be about 10 chapters long (plus prologue and epilogue).

Also, since there was a question about it, I'm going to share what comes from the comics (altered or otherwise) - I'm assuming everyone is familiar with the series

In the prologue:

The Venerable Azar - After the High Priest tried to get rid of baby Raven by throwing her into Limbo (he was destroyed), Azar (spiritual leader of Temple) and descendant of the founder of Azarath, took Raven under her wing and raised her.

Azar's death - In the comics this occurs quite some time before Raven actually goes to Earth. Her "death" (she actually entered into another plane of existence) was not the catalyst for Raven to leave for Earth. As for how she died, I'm not sure what the cause of death was in the comic. In the fic, I'm chalking it up to using all of her energy to seal Trigon in Limbo after he attacks Azarath. This is actually a combination of comic canon: Trigon attacks Azarath LONG after Azar's death, indeed after Raven goes to Earth and organizes the New Teen Titans, and it's they who seal Trigon in the Nether-verse (an inter-dimensional prison) while Arella (who's dead in the fic) guards the door.

Arella's death - Arella is dead when this fic begins, but in the comics she actually dies when Raven is well into her adulthood and gone through quite a few good-evil-good-evil cycles. She doesn't die until long after Trigon's attack on Azarath and the corrupted souls of Azarath (more on that below) become a danger in and of themselves. She dies along with the former Phantasm while purifying the dimension which ceases to be Azarath and becomes known as Phantasm.

Raven's knowledge of her father - According to the comic, Raven doesn't actually find out about her demonic parentage until after Azar's death and she begins to have prophetic dreams about Trigon and her role in his release (at about age 13). Also when she was thirteen she ventured into Limbo to confront Trigon who asked her to become his co-ruler. When she said no, he threatened Arella, and Raven nearly lost the battle against him. Her mother - Arella - saved her and Trigon let them go, convinced that Raven would come to his side on her own after she reached adulthood. So Raven was left alone till she was 18 when she felt Trigon's power rising, and she fled to Earth to seek help in defeating him.

"The priests of Azarath will not aid you, not even to defend themselves." - This is taken from the comic (not the actual line!). Azarath was a dimension of pacifist minded Earth people (YES, they are HUMANS). When Trigon DID eventually attack them (after the NTT were formed), they refused to fight back, leaving it up to the Titans to protect them. As a result, they were eventually corrupted by Trigon's evil.

Azar's rings - On Azar's death, Raven receives Azar's golden rings in the comic. They will become an integral part of the story later on.

The Justice League of America - Raven goes to the Justice League in the comics when she gets to Earth to petition their help against Trigon. Unfortunately, Zantana (magician lady) sensed evil in Raven and convinced the League to reject her.

Founding of the Titans - In the comics, it's Raven who implants the idea of a unified group in Robin's mind then gathers the New Teen Titans after she's rejected by the Justice League. In my story, I thought it would be more fitting for Robin to be the agent since he is the leader and one gets the idea watching the show that the TT is Robin's baby.

Nothin' to say for this chapter.

The theme for this chapter is Papa Roach's "Sometimes".

The lyrics:

I'm dreamin about tomorrow,

I'm thinkin of yesterday,

I consume myself in sorrow

This moment in time is what I betray,

I am searching for the answers

_Chorus_

I look around sometimes I get sad,

'Cause I don't know which way to go,

I look around sometimes I get sad,

'Cause my life is spinning out of control

I never know what you want,

I never know what you need,

it was different from the start,

when you cut me in two I never  
thought I would bleed,

but I am searching for the answers

_Chorus_

I will go this alone

I don't need nobody's help,

I've got to do this myself,

Alone, Alone, Alone, Alone  
_Chorus x2_


	3. Surface Tension

**_Walk on Water_**

_By Kysra_

Chapter Two: Surface Tension

_- A week later -_

When Cyborg first met Raven she stood in his door like a ghost, dripping rain from dirty, voluminous robes, long hair falling into her face in greasy, stringy clumps of amethyst. Her skin, always pale, had been ashen . . . and somewhat sallow, shadowed with hunger and fatigue. She had been the very picture of death warmed over.

He had looked past her to Robin who shook his head slightly before introducing her. The two boys had seated her in the kitchen, a bowl of heated canned soup hastily placed in front of her before they retreated to the little crack-in-the-wall bedroom to discuss the lost waif.

Cyborg had yelled at the red and green spandex-clad teen without preamble, questioning his sanity in bringing the little girl to his apartment. Hell's Kitchen was not a place for helpless children, and he was not some ready-made nanny. Robin had begged off, saying that they needed Raven's power and Raven needed their help. They couldn't just leave her in a strange place without friends. But Cyborg stood his ground, until Robin pointed out that the agreement had been made to build suitable headquarters. They would need all the assistance they could get - not only for the building but the team. Raven had been rejected once. She would not be turned away again.

So, Cyborg relented despite his misgivings. Now, he supposed that the issue was just another illustration of his - then, new - dual personality. The computer was weighing in the risk/pay-off ratio. The man was responding to a little girl in need.

After Robin had taken his leave, Cyborg had returned to the kitchen of his run-down apartment to find Raven sitting calmly, the bowl of soup left untouched. She had stared at him, her strange eyes boring into the grafted metal of his new body. Self-conscious of the artificial _thing_ he had become, the part of him that was still Victor Stone had been defensive and cold. It was only through observation and patience that he was able to discern, within the first few days of their acquaintance, that she was neither disgusted nor pitying but curious.

In fact, Raven had been curious about everything as a newly mobile toddler discovering the world for the first time. She was always very serious when asking about this or that appliance, remarkably tentative when it came to machines, but fearless in experimenting once he explained the mechanics of how hot water issued from the shower head or what magic brought pictures into the television screen. It was through her grave interest in everything around her - no matter how minuscule - that he came to know her.

Lost in his thoughts, Cyborg gave a meaningless wry grin as his eyes navigated the road to Gotham.

"You're thinking about her." Robin's voice reached into his musings, his tone betraying his worry, his volume soft to keep from disturbing Starfire and Beast Boy who were sleeping peacefully in the backseat.

"This trip is for her. Seems appropriate," was the only reply Cyborg could give through the nervous lump in his throat before becoming engulfed in memories again.

Getting to know Raven was more an experience of negatives than anything else. It wasn't what she _liked_ that mattered, it was what she _didn't like_ that was of greater importance; because keeping Raven content - if not happy - was absolutely essential in keeping your personal property in one piece.

For instance, it became apparent rather quickly that Raven disliked noise. She had not articulated it verbally, never gave any outward sign of her discomfort that could be clearly attributed to an aversion to loud sound. It was something he had ultimately learned through watching her. When the neighbors played rap music outside with the bass turned up, she would sort of curl into herself, shoulders hunched and hands clasped to her chest as her lips moved slowly, eyes closed tightly. When he would bang, scrape, and crash dishes in the sink while cleaning them, her entire body would tense and there seemed to be a crackle of energy in the room.

Similarly, he discovered that she was averse to physical contact through non-verbal reaction. Once, he had hugged her. It had been an involuntary impulse produced by the euphoria of his favorite football team winning the play-offs. He had jumped up from his seat on the ratty, nondescript sofa and grabbed the dozing Raven into an embrace. His television set, stereo, and his mother's favorite lamp had been the immediate casualties.

At that point, he had become accustomed to the occasional exploding dish, a vibrating window, or random unidentified flying objects glowing black. That familiarity didn't stop him from commenting to Robin, "That is one strange bird." A statement to which the Boy Wonder replied, "No, she's just different."

That moment had spawned an epiphany in Cyborg: They were the same. Cyborg was not Victor. Victor was not Cyborg. Yet, they were the same person, just different, created . . . changed by events beyond his control. Raven had come to them of necessity - as far as he understood - from all that was familiar to a place that shunned her when what she needed was aid, not judgement. In a world where conformity ruled, Cyborg and Raven walked the same path if for different reasons.

She had been (still was) so small, an undernourished, frail waif (whom Cyborg had mistaken for a nine year old child rather than the teen she had been at the time) bent on appearing strong, succeeding in producing an air of serenity but absolutely in need of some form of nurturing guidance. She had been empty, needed to be filled with something hard, solid . . . substantial, and it had been a constant vexation for him back then that all he could offer was food, shelter, and the promise of a (somewhat) stable tomorrow. So, he had decided that he would take care of her. After all, he had been taking care of her for six months before the building of the Tower commenced; and during that time, he had developed an affection for the dark girl, cultivated something like a rudimentary understanding of her internal processes and habits. He had unconsciously adopted her; and even at present, though he knew her family name was Roth, he always secretly thought of her as Raven Stone - the little sister he had never had.

And in addition to loving her, she certainly made life interesting. Her mysterious nature virtually guaranteed frequent shocks and questions. He still didn't quite understand what she was or why she was here; and the closest he had ever come to asking (and getting an answer) was during the construction of the Titans Tower.

Despite the telekinesis, it wasn't until then that Cyborg began to suspect that there was more to Raven's power than simply moving whole objects or accelerating atom movement to the - literal - breaking point. Occasionally, Robin, Silas, or one of the myriad specialists recruited by Silas would hammer a finger, suffer a cut or burn, or - at worst - sprain an ankle or wrist. When those rare injuries occurred, Raven would touch the bearer of whatever pains their work had wrought; and those people would somehow find themselves miraculously cured of their hurt, returning to work as if nothing had happened to halt them. In short order, it became clear to Cyborg, that Raven's touch could heal all wounds, and he eventually sought her out to confront her.

"Just, what _are _you?" Looking back, it wasn't the most tactful way to word himself, and he remembered the almost startled look on her face as she answered softly, a hint of shame in her voice.

"I'm just a seed." And despite his gift for reading people, Cyborg still didn't know what she had been trying to tell him.

- WoW -

Naked, vulnerable, Raven stood before her mirror, eyes searching the pale skin for the angry red fire always burning just beneath the surface now that Slade had succeeded in making them appear. Tentative fingers took the path, skimming over her chakra stone before dancing, swirling across her breasts, trailing down her stomach and cutting a perfect 'v' between her thighs, coming back up to cup her shoulders, trace the imagined symbols etched invisibly upon her arms, and finally settling palm against palm in a mocking gesture of reverence.

_Just another sign of my own damnation._

There was something strangely beautiful about the mental tattoo, this picture of her body, pale skin shadowed with grey shadows and white light, her mind's eye and fingers painting the designs of her father - the blue print of her inevitable fall from grace - messily in angry vermillion. It was the clock by which she judged time, a ticking bomb; and her father had given Slade the trigger.

Time had never been her friend, so she didn't know why she felt vaguely betrayed. To her, time had always been a tool if not an obstacle to fight against, and she supposed her abuse of the insubstantial element had cost her essential seconds, minutes, hours . . . days. She had been struggling with borrowed time for a long period; yet, it was still a shock that her debts had come due even as she realized she needed more.

She had never truly understood but was fairly certain that her power wasn't so much power in the strictest sense. She would never be equal or stronger than any one of her teammates when it came to physical strength; rather, it was her ability to manipulate space and time that made her valuable - to the Titans and to her father.

Thinking about it, her power to stop time should not have surprised her as much as it originally had. The mechanics escaped her as she had never been trained in the source of her talents (possibly because Azar and the priests had not known how it was her "power" worked), but she had gleaned a bit of understanding from conversations with Cyborg and her own observations. For instance, when she healed, it wasn't an actual repair of whatever wound that occurred but a shift in time over the damaged area. Whether she was speeding the natural healing process or creating a reversal in the events that caused the injury, she could not know for healing was not a mental process for her but an energy driven one.

Just as it was her energy release that had effectively stopped time on her birthday. That Slade was able to exist outside of the space-time continuum with her . . . She didn't want to think about the implications.

Time, then, was at once ally and enemy - a tool to use to her advantage and a gift given to be utilized against her; because, now . . . . Now, she realized, there was nowhere and no _when_ to hide.

Suppressing a shudder, Raven chose a blue leotard from the multitude and proceeded to cover her nakedness. Since the others were gone, allowing her the benefit of complete quiet (granted no crises occurred in the city), she had decided to spend the day renewing the balance of her mind and body through meditation, a bit of aroma therapy, and pointedly not thinking of Trigon, Slade, or anything even remotely related to her "destiny."

_I make my **own** destiny, just as I make my own decisions. I will not **allow** Zantana to be right about me._

But it wasn't that simple, and she knew it. Her convictions ran as hollow as the Tower seemed without her teammates' bellow and bustle to make it alive.

Making her way to the roof, Raven distracted herself with thoughts of her friends, her family who knew her best of all, who knew her not at all. It was like her mother and Azar all over again, all physical closeness with a million self-imposed barriers and enforced silence. It was strange how, despite the need to keep her heart hidden from even herself, despite the absolute necessity of remaining isolated, just knowing someone cared nearby was enough to alleviate the loneliness.

Once, when she had been very young and naive, she had wished for Azar to know of the things that brought her pleasure, and she had been thoroughly reprimanded when she had expressed a liking for a certain breed of flower that grew nearby; and after she had come to Earth, after she had met Robin and Cyborg, after the Tower had been completed, she had wanted nothing more than to express her joy in finding a place to belong. She had ruthlessly suppressed the desire then, remembering her mentor's scathing remonstrance, and as her control over her emotions grew and became stronger, the compulsion had become nearly nonexistent.

It scared her, the loss of her own feelings. She realized the others only had a rudimentary understanding of how the suppression process worked, but Raven could appreciate the knowledge that they knew she wasn't completely emotionless. It was a small comfort, knowing that they did not take her blank stare for granted, that they knew - if things were different - she could feel just as deeply and strongly as they did. She simply wasn't allowed to let those feelings express themselves due to the projected disastrous consequences; but, now, with everyday that passed, it became that much more difficult to distinguish anything beyond the numbness.

Raven couldn't begin to analyze whether it was just a natural effect of her long struggle or a survival mechanism brought into play to cloak her fear. Whatever it was, it never lasted long, and she would wish . . .

If she were ever given a day - just a day or even a single hour - to show them the personality that slept behind her eyes, she would make them understand that she wasn't everything she appeared to be, that there was so much more . . . . She would let them know how she loved them beyond herself, how she was sorry they felt self-conscious around her - that she made them worry, how she favored hot showers and the scent of freesia and green tea, how she was neither a morning person nor a natural early-riser despite her tendency to wake at the crack of dawn, how she liked earth tones and neutrals rather than predominantly bright or dark colors, how she had always wanted to spend a quiet afternoon fishing or sitting on a sandy beach listening to the waves.

It was one of her greatest and well-kept secrets - that she loved sunshine and rain, affections she had acquired through countless hours sitting among the blue grass learning how to control her emotions, hearing the sweet, softness of Azar's voice speaking through the meditative trance. Light and rain also reminded Raven of her mother, of summer, crystalline waters, the bittersweet taste of lost opportunities, and lessons learned the hard way.

Azarath had been beautiful in the summers - all green pasture and pastel blossoms - and she had loved the feel of the suns' heat upon her pale cheeks, the rasp of moist grass beneath her feet. In those long ago days, she had not been able to express joy any more than she was able now; however, her hands had held the dew drops, her lips had sung in silent reverence to the breeze, and she had drowned fervently in the full quiet. The air was always fresh, scented with errant flower petals and spiced with the odd fern as the water was always clear, the river seeming a glittering ribbon of gold winding just below the horizon.

When she had been a child of five or so, Raven had run to the river in an effort to hide from Azar's meditation session for despite what her friends may have believed, meditation had never come naturally to her. Rather, it was something of a very necessary chore, and Azar had entertained her anger when she had realized Raven's rebellion. The escape from Azar's (admittedly almost-non-existent) wrath had been relatively simple since Raven had learned to levitate and fly before she could walk, and it was a somewhat short distance to the river. Her arrival had been met with soft gurgling, the subtle whisper of the wind, and the energetic twittering of some nesting animal in the nearby forest; but it was the ivory clad figure bending to drink that captured and held little Raven's attention.

She had been hunched over, her figure slight and young against the crystal waters and sunlight, her dark hair flying upon the air currents like a banner behind her. Azar had called her by name, _Arella_, and she had turned her head to find the shape of Raven's mentor only to discover Raven herself. It was then, as brown meshed with violet, eyes meeting for the first time, that Raven knew she was looking into her own future - the face of her mother.

Arella, just as shocked as little Raven, had unconsciously reached out to touch; but Azar's voice had rung out sharply in warning before reaching the pair and lifting Raven securely onto her hip, "You know better, Arella. To touch is to bond."

The one called Arella, the one little Raven had understood without words was her mother, had nodded then, a strained smile hovering over her silent lips before she rose and walked away. Raven saw her very rarely afterwards, just glimpses here and there during prayers at Temple, doing laundry at the river, or while walking through the orchards. They never spoke to each other, and Raven never heard her voice speaking to other priestesses or servants. Yet, the image of Arella reaching out, the feeling of that tidal wave of affection once she had been acknowledged as _daughter_, had never faded.

Raven had built her entire "relationship" with her mother on that one moment of connection, but instead of causing more pain or some unquenchable yearning, the place her mother had taken within her soul filled a little corner of emptiness and made life just a little less lonely.

Reaching the Tower roof, Raven began preparations for deep meditation, establishing a firm breathing pattern, relaxing her entire body, closing her eyes and directing her cloaked stare towards the center of her forehead. _Azarath, Metrion, Zenthos_, she began the old mantra, allowing the flow of her own energy to lift her a hair's breadth from the ground. Her subconscious, muddled as it was with confrontations past and present, resurrected images to be filed away yet again into the archive of memory so that she could have a small respite from their influence.

The process had been taking longer and longer these days, the assortment of rampant memories and emotions were becoming more dated, dusty, . . . vivid. Today would be the worst, she knew. _There was the faint scent of burning flesh in the air and an unsettling vibration transmitting from beneath her. She could hear the screams of a hundred innocents and could feel a fearful chill in the air. Somewhere, a tear had occurred in the dimensional fabric, a forceful rape of Azarath's world barrier; and the intruder was coming closer, his steps crashing through the orchards nearby, his hordes following at his heels, destroying everything in sight with fire and indiscriminate violence. _

The force of his coming had pulled her from a deep sleep within Azar's hut, and she had roused herself only to find that she was alone. Ominous orange light had flickered into the windows, and - without knowing exactly why - she had begun running in the direction of Temple. Through hot flame, billowing smoke, flying rubble, and active death she had run without stopping, and it wasn't until she had passed over the cleared threshold of her mother's house, that Raven acknowledged she had intended to go there from the moment the realization of immediate danger had been acknowledged. What she discovered there, she would never be able to forget.

A red-skinned, horned monster had held her mother by the throat against the wall, dangling her body above the floor. Raven, forgetting everything her training up to this point had taught her, had shot to her mother's side, hands wrapping around one limp arm in supplication. _I'll do anything, anything, just let her go. Please, don't kill my mother!_

The laugh that had shaken the little house haunted her still and blood had begun to rain upon her head, black claws having stabbed into the tender flesh of Arella's throat. _Mother? Tell me, little one. Does it make you angry to see her in pain?_

_Raven. _Her mother had choked out her name, eyes aimed skyward and wet with tears. _Raven . . . loved . . you –_

The blood had begun to flow in earnest, and Raven had poured her energy into the woman never realizing that tears had fallen to wet her cheeks. _I can fix this. I can fix this. Icanfixthisfixthisfixthis!_

But Trigon's fist had closed upon the windpipe, robbing Arella of breath and - eventually - severing her head clean off. Raven had watched numbly as her mother's body fell, the head coming to roll and rest between the spread legs of the new cadaver, the face fixed with an expression of horror for eternity. _Behold, child. This is the fate of everyone you hold dear. _

"No! NO! NO MORE! LEAVE ME ALONE!" Raven screamed, lost in her meditative memory-nightmare.

She had dropped to set her mother's head aright, to somehow huddle away from this demon that had succeeded in destroying everything good in her world. He had approached her then, his grinning fangs gleaming with firelight. _Come with me, child. Leave your earthly mother, and come take your rightful place by my side._

"Get. **AWAY!**" Unable to control her emotions through the barrage of images, a boat in the harbor exploded and her own head was nearly taken off by a flying paint canister - if she hadn't fallen back with the jolt of flailing from stationary levitation to the roof's surface. Folding in on herself, she pulled her arms and legs into her chest before rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth . . . _Azarath, Metrion, Zenthos, AzarathMetrionZenthosazarathmetrionzenthosazarathmetrionzenthos . . . _

She would have died then, would have allowed her father to take her life. At least then - in another dimension . . . existence - she might have been given the chance to know her mother through means other than the one she had carelessly taken. That one touch, when she had wrapped her hands around her dying mother's arm, had given Raven everything that her mother was. Every tear, every joy, every pain, every doubt, every worry, every talent, . . . everything. Raven had soaked it up like a sponge, and what hadn't been clear in that moment, had become clear in dreams once Azar appeared to transfer Trigon and his army back into Limbo where they belonged.

But even the terrifying knowledge that Trigon was her father could not take away from Arella's last triumph and Raven's first and last gift from her mother. For nothing can shadow the light of love freely given, even if there was no other way to express it but through silent glances and - at the last - an unwilling touch and bittersweet words.

Lost in her memories, lost in her emotions, lost in a hopeless maelstrom of her own fear, Raven sat rocking upon the Tower roof, curled up into a little ball of misery and never once noticed that she cried.

- WoW -

The café was dimly lit and relatively quiet. It was out of the way, private, and perfect - they had only to mention Bruce Wayne's name to be escorted to a backroom, away from prying eyes and secured from stray ears.

They were seated cordially without a word, and it was not a long wait before Robin's adoptive father showed up in full bat regalia. Robin suddenly felt like an abject idiot for wearing street clothes even if he _did_ retain the mask.

"Robin."

"Batman."

Greetings over, they got down to business. Even Beast Boy and Starfire - who were being strangely quiet due to intimidation - were aware that this was not a social call.

"I need information." Robin started as it was he who had called the Bat. "I need to know everything about Raven's entrance into Earth, Azarath, and Raven's rejection by the Justice League. Anything you can provide."

Batman _almost_ looked perplexed. "She's _your_ teammate. Why don't you ask her?"

"She won't talk."

"Perhaps she has a reason for keeping her secrets." It was delivered without warning or hesitation, a sharp nail aimed straight for the heart. Everyone in that room had secrets they were keeping, none more so than the two in masks.

The silence stretched between them until Cyborg, sick of silence and secrets and full of worry-induced urgency, revealed the only piece of information he knew would _make_ Batman talk, "Slade's still alive. He's after her."

The Bat's head turned sharply to fix the cybernetically enhanced man with a stare that could melt lead. "What?"

"It's true. She won't tell us why. She won't tell us anything, but we know he's after her." Robin averted his eyes as Batman faced him again.

"Why wasn't I notified immediately?"

Cyborg answered before Robin could, "We're still trying to figure out how the hell he survived."

If possible, the Caped Crusader's ever-present frown deepened. "The more important question is _why_."

"That's why I contacted _you_." Robin raised his chin to look directly into his mentor's masked eyes.

Long moments dragged by as all parties involved seemed to be caught in a staring stalemate. Robin was tense, Cyborg impatient, Batman immobile, Starfire completely confused, and Beastboy antsy. The pause was only broken when Batman grunted, standing roughly and turning his back to his protégé. He had come to a decision.

"There are a little over 200 people with the family name 'Roth' listed as living in the state of New York. Fifty-eight percent of them are female, and there is no 'Raven' among them. Five of the total number are missing persons. Only two of the forty-nine could - plausibly - be related to your friend."

Robin's stare could have burned holes in Batman's cape. "I suppose you've found the two?"

"The first - a Mr. Robert Roth - was found dead several years ago. The second was a Miss Angela Roth. I tracked down her mother. Apparently, Angela's father was a religious fanatic who used drugs as a means of getting closer to God. Angela ran away when she was seventeen. Consumed with guilt, her father committed suicide as penance. Her mother was arrested for drug trafficking and entered into a rehabilitation program. After she was released - clean, she tracked Angela down to a Satanic cult: The Church of Trigon."

The name had both Robin and Cyborg gasping. Batman continued, "When she discovered Angela had run away from the Church, she filed a report with the local police. The investigation quickly turned cold."

Cyborg and Robin shared a pointed look before Cyborg asked, "Do we have any clues as to where she might have gone? And . . . do you think she's related to Raven?"

"Only one. The Church of Trigon is still active. They have a history of luring kids off the streets and committing petty crimes. When Angela's mother filed the report and listed the Church as being her daughter's last known residence, she mentioned that the Church followers had repeatedly referred to Angela as 'the Mother' and 'Trigon's Bride.' Given the nature of her _titles_ as well as the date of her second disappearance in relation to Raven's age, there's a very good possibility that Angela Roth is Raven's mother."

"Dude! Raven's from Earth!" Beastboy fairly exploded with disbelief.

Robin held up his hand, and Beastboy quieted. This wasn't the time for passionate displays. "Why would you even make inquiries into Raven's past?"

Batman turned the face the handful of teen super-heroes once again. "When she first appeared, Zantana dismissed her as being inherently evil. Before she left, Superman asked her if she needed help getting home. She said no. Flash asked her if she needed to call her parents. She said she didn't have parents. I asked her if she needed to be taken to an orphanage. She said she wasn't an orphan. Considering all of that and the mess she made of the control room without lifting a finger, I think I was justified."

"Does the rest of the Justice League know all of this?"

"No."

Robin relaxed a little. If Zantana thought Raven was evil . . . Her mother was _human_, and her father – Her father was . . . It was unthinkable, but –

"He's her dad, man." It was Cyborg who gave the idea voice. It was Cyborg who gave it reality.

And it was Starfire who gave into confusion. "I'm sorry. Who's father are we speaking of?"

She was summarily ignored. There would be time for explanations later. There had to be time. _Raven, why didn't you just tell us?_

Batman gave them a few moments to internalize the possibility that their friend was truly the spawn of a demonic entity. "A few weeks after Raven's arrival - and subsequent recruitment, Zantana decided a visit to Azarath was in order."

"I remember you mentioning it."

"We were met by a woman named Sabe. She explained that their world had been attacked mere weeks before. By Trigon. When we mentioned Raven by name, she seemed very concerned, but when asked if Raven posed a threat, she merely said that was Raven's decision."

Robin wasn't sure if he should mention it but . . . "When I first met her, she warned me that she was dangerous."

The tense line of the older man's mouth softened somewhat. "Is she a liar?"

Starfire answered, indignant that anyone could doubt the integrity of her friend, "Friend Raven_ never _speaks falsely."

"But she does hide the truth sometimes," Beastboy added.

Without looking away from his ex-sidekick, Batman nodded slightly before reaching into his utility belt and throwing two articles across the table. One was a scrawling of strange symbols, the other a photograph.

"The picture is Angela Roth. Your friend might want to have it. The letter is from Sabe. She wouldn't let us leave until she was assured it would be delivered."

"And you waited until **now**, three - almost four - years later!"

"Sabe told me I would know when it was time. I suppose she was right."

_Why, Raven? Why couldn't you trust us with this?_

Noticing his son's distracted state, Bruce Wayne reached out with a gloved hand to grip Robin's shoulder. "I got the impression that Raven left Azarath to rally a force to defeat Trigon. When I asked Sabe why a thirteen year old would be trusted with that kind of responsibility, she told me that Raven had her reasons for wanting Trigon's defeat more than anyone."

_And we never asked her, never made the effort to find out why, why she was here, why she . . . _

"We have to go back to the Tower. Now."

Batman nodded silently before exiting the way he came, cape billowing out behind him.

Cyborg turned to his leader. "We shouldn't have left her."

Robin knew what he was not saying, _Slade's after her. Slade should have died. Trigon probably has the kind of power to resurrect the dead then use them for his own purposes. Trigon is Raven's father. Raven's father . . . _

If her erratic behavior lately was any indication, the part of her that constituted "dangerous" was becoming stronger; and her birthday was the catalyst . . . her birthday, coming of age, calling to –

_. . . her father. A demon. Trigon. And he had sent Slade after her . . . to deliver a message._

_- _WoW -

When they reached the Tower, it was late, and neither Cyborg or Robin had the patience to respond to Starfire's concerns or Beastboy's questions. They had entered the building they called home, weary and travel-worn only to be confronted with a world-class mess. The common room was littered with glass and melted plastic, the kitchen looked as if all of the cupboards and refrigerator had vomited their contents in every direction, windows were broken or completely missing, and the halls were darkened and haphazardly lined with fragments of burst light bulbs.

It was no secret who was responsible, and the four friends immediately took off in search of the one they had left behind, hearts hammering and frantic pleadings running through their heads. There was the mantra of guilt pulsing in their blood – _Shouldn't have left her. Should have been here. Could have helped. Could have stopped this. Let her be okay._

Cyborg reached her door and prayed a silent prayer to a deity he had ceased to believe in when his body had become half metal and wiring; and in his haste to find his friend, he pushed down the door rather than bothering with the security keypad next to it.

She was curled up in the middle of her floor, pieces of her stone masks lying around her, bed mysteriously absent, clock shattered near an overturned table, and a veritable library of books and torn pages strewn randomly everywhere.

"Friend Raven?" Starfire's voice was a shaky whisper, and Robin was the first to notice the tears on her cheeks.

Listless, the shell of a girl moved stiffly to her knees, her head lowered and hair falling to mask her face. Cyborg knelt next to her, sensors scanning her for injury. Relieved that she seemed in top physical health, he coaxed her face up with one hand. "Hey, Dark Girl." He tried a smile, but it slid off his face when she reached up to wipe at her cheeks half-heartedly.

"They keep coming and he keeps laughing . . . laughing, laughing at me."

Gut instinct told Robin something really bad was happening and he started toward her, one hand outstretched, eyes wide as he noticed a strange red symbol appear on her forehead, swirling jaggedly around her chakra stone. "There's no one laughing at you. It's all right, Raven. We're here. We'll help you. We'll –"

Her glassy-eyed stare swivelled toward him, and she seemed to shrink away towards the huge hole where her windows (newly replaced) once stood. He was suddenly very afraid she would fall or jump, but he was also afraid that following her would drive her further towards the open space. Cyborg seemed similarly paralyzed even as the room became encapsulated with black energy.

"Gone . . . You're all –" Wet violet eyes were filled with pain and horror as Raven's voice choked out then screamed, "I've killed you, I've killed you all!" The four watched in horror as their friend collapsed, glowing red symbols burning onto her hands, fingers grasping and tearing at the carpet. She groveled before them like a shadow, wailing about sins never committed. Her knees and palms began to bleed, cut upon the broken glass shards lying there.

Acting quickly, Cyborg approached her, speaking in soothing tones, "We're here, baby. We're here." The hand he laid tentatively upon her neck injected a fast-acting sedative into her blood stream, and when she quieted, falling into a numbing sleep, he picked her up into the cradle of his arms and carried her - silently - towards the med wing.

Starfire and Beastboy glanced at each other, frightened and not knowing where to turn for some sort of explanation, before looking to their leader who stood, his shoulders tense, back facing towards them.

Robin's mind was racing, his heart was in his throat, and he wondered how it had come to this and what could he do to fix it? His eyes surveyed the damage, taking in the new blood stains darkening the deep purple carpet before noticing the only item that was not broken or displaced.

Taking slow, shaky steps, the Boy Wonder came to stand in front of Raven's haphazardly disorganized closet and reached up to take down the wooden box she had so steadfastly guarded when he first met her. It was the only thing in the room (or in the Tower - it seemed) left untouched by force or power. Her mirror, he distantly noted, was missing.

If she could still protect this box, some part of her was still under control; and if a part of her was still under control then hope had not been lost. There was still time to help her. There was still time . . .

_But she's slipping fast_. And she was probably determined to resolve everything on her own. Her words echoed in his head - _Gone . . . I've killed you all!_, and he suddenly knew that she had been trying to protect them all this time. _And all this time, she's probably been playing into _his_ hands._

Refusing to talk about it, getting caught up in other - exterior - conflicts, she had been distancing herself from her reasons for being on Earth, ignoring her true priority, and . . . resigning herself to whatever future awaited her. Resigning herself to whatever destiny _she believed_ awaited her.

Gritting his teeth, Robin tightened his grip on the wooden box that carried such meaning for Raven, turned on his heel and brushed past Beastboy and Starfire without looking back, not minding the bewildered stares of his teammates.

_Later. After I talk to her. After I make sure she's all right._

After he talked to her, after he figured out what the hell she had meant in the church when she said "they" had looked into her future. After he pinpointed the source of her fears. After he had an understanding of the enemy. After . . . After –

_After I convince her that she's not alone, that she doesn't have to do this by herself. After I tell her that she always has a choice. She's not a slave to whatever screwed up destiny those people fed her. She can still fight . . . on her own terms._

_It's not too late. It's never too late. _

His footsteps felt hollow, echoing through the glass-littered hall as he made his way to the med wing.

_It **can't** be too late . . . _

To be continued . . .

**Author's Notes: **Again, I'd like to thank the very kind reviewers for their words of encouragement I would also like to apologize for the lag between the first chapter and this one. I'm a graduate student finishing up her course work and just beginning her thesis, and it's nearing the end of the semester. Be advised that everything is coming due, and I have very limited free time. Please be patient with me. Thank you.

Notes on the comic-related portions:

Hell's Kitchen - Victor Stone (aka Cyborg) moved to Hell's Kitchen (very, VERY bad part of town) to get away from his father and himself after the accident that made him . . . well, Cyborg. He felt that if he wasn't normal, he should be with the other outsiders. In the comic, this is also where Raven found him and convinced him to join the Titans. Obviously, that's changed a bit in this story.

Gotham City - The cartoon series is set somewhere on the West Coast. The comic is set somewhere on the East Coast - same as Gotham. In fact, the comic Tower is located in the East River. For the sake of my sanity, this story takes place on the East Coast. Therefore, it is possible for the Titans to DRIVE to Gotham rather than having to sit through several connecting flights. I shouldn't have to tell you what (or - more accurately - who) is in Gotham.

Victor's mother's favorite lamp - The same accident that caused Victor to have his body reconstructed with cybernetic parts is the same accident that killed his mother. From what I understand, his mother was much more understanding of him than his father was, hence why I had him retain a special item to remember her.

Dr. Silas Stone is Victor (Cyborg)'s father and the one he blamed for 1. the accident that killed his mother and almost killed him, 2. for not allowing him to die, 3. turning him into a machine. To make amends - after the Teen Titans were assembled (in this story, once the TT are simply started) - Silas offered to build Titans Tower and equip it with all of the top-of-the-line, state-of-the-art technology (including some experimental items). It was an offer that was obviously accepted.

Raven's family name as "Roth" - This is comic canon. Arella's original name was Angela Roth, and it becomes apparent in the comic that Raven knows her mother's true name. How she knows or when she finds out, I'm not quite sure. In the current story arc of the Teen Titans comic, Raven has entered high school under the alias "Rachel Roth." Of course, she's long been orphaned, and body-hopped quite a few times at this point. (If you have a chance to pick up a copy of the latest, check out BEAST BOY O.O He . . . certainly grew up nicely . . . ). Also, if the Titans have Raven's birthdate on file somewhere, I'm sure they have her full name as well.

"I'm just a seed." - Trigon intentionally set out, upon their unholy marriage, to get Angela Roth (Arella) pregnant. Raven - then - was planted for the express purpose of acting as her father's instrument to dominion. And the "seed" was a piece of his corrupted soul grafted into her (as far as I can understand it). In the same vein, when Raven turns evil in the comic, she plants her own seeds, specifically in Starfire (who got lucky in getting the "good" seed - more on THAT episode later) and others (who weren't so lucky as Star). It was also Trigon sowing his "seeds" that caused the souls of Azarath to become corrupt and evil (as mentioned in the previous chapter's notes).

Time/Healing theory - This is actually inspired by the character of Subaru in Yu Watase's manga series Fushigi Yuugi. Subaru had the ability to control time, and Kaze-chan (at interprets her healing abilities as a manipulation of time in the specific area of their wounds in her fic "It WAS a Normal Day at the Market." In other words, the theory IS NOT MINE.

Angela Roth's parents - That her father was a religious fanatic is canon. I'm not sure about her mother. The only thing we really get about them in the comics is that they pretty much ignored her. They're pretty much open to speculation.

Batman and the Justice League - I'm screwing with Justice League chronology a bit. Batman doesn't join the Justice League until WAY after Raven appears on Earth and petitions the Justice League.

The Justice League visits Azarath - This happens directly after Raven appears and is rejected by JLA. Zantana senses evil (what is with her and evil?), and somehow they JLA travels to Azarath to find the source. Raven follows with the New Teen Titans and imprisons them! Zantana then reveals to the NTT that Raven basically brainwashed them into forming. Obviously, things are DRASTICALLY changed in this fic.

As for how Batman to look for certain info, let's pretend that when Robin contacted him to schedule that nice little talk, he gave the Bat a list of what he wanted to know.

Additional notes: Ages for this story are . . .

Cyborg - 19

Robin - 17 (almost 18)

Raven - 16

Starfire - 17

Beast Boy - 15 (Hah! He was twelve when he joined XD)

At one point Robin says, "No, she's just different" in response to Cyborg calling her "strange." There will be many parallels between Robin's and Azar's attitude toward Raven in this story. Just a heads-up.

I also say at one point that Cyborg and Raven are the same. IMHO, Cyborg and Raven have a lot in common. In fact, I would go so far as to say they have more in common than Robin and Raven. They both have dual personalities that are not of their own creation - Cyborg through the very nature of his composition and Raven as a result of her training. There is the robotic/unemotional part of Cyborg which is often willfully overwhelmed by the human/emotional part - Victor - that does not want to be different and still mourns the loss of even a small part of his humanity. Similarly, Raven presents her unemotional side out of necessity and must FEEL (yes, FEEL - for goodness sake, she has an entire WORLD constructed in her mind where her emotions live) through a very tight filter. Her difference is only apparent because she can't allow herself to care about it, but just as Victor would like to deny his robotic side, Raven ceaselessly works to fight off her demon side. There is also their perceptive natures. Cyborg understands people because he spent so much time when he was a full human trying to make himself appealing to others (not to mention he's a certified genius), and Raven knows people because of how hard she works to subdue her emotions (aside from her empathic abilities, of course).

There was also a comment about the songs at the end of each chapter that I would like to answer briefly. I realize that readers might skip over them, and that's fine. I will not stop including them, however, since I have a stringent policy of giving credit where it is due. In this case, Walk on Water would not be written if it were not for these songs. Each song included is one I listen to on repeat as I write as a form of inspiration. Whether readers notice them or not is not the issue. Rather, I am merely revealing the muse for each chapter. That being said, the theme for this chapter is "Colors" by Crossfade. The lyrics:

Can you feel it crush you? Does it seem to bring the worst in you out?  
There's no running away from these things that hold you down.  
Do they complicate you? Because they make you feel like this.  
Of all the colors that you've shine, this is surely not your best.

But you should know these colors that you're shining are  
Surely not the best colors that you shine.

I know you feel alone, yeah, and no one else can figure you out.  
But don't you ever turn away from the ones that help you down.  
Well, they'd love to save you. Don't you know they love to see you smile?  
But these colors that you've shined are surely not your style.

I know you're feeling like you're lost, you've drifted way too far.  
But you should know these colors you're shining are surely not the best.


	4. Perfect 7

**_Author's Notes:_** First, I need to say - HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME! It's 11:25 pm my time, therefore it is still my birthday and I am within the offered deadline XD

Fair warning: This is the last of the 'set-up' chapters. All of the main players have been introduced and put into play; therefore, the plot will now get underway. (Whoa, rhyme!)

Now -- A mighty thank you to **Svelterose**, who wrote quite a bit for the first draft though those segments were eventually edited out in draft six or seven due to my changing my mind as to where I wanted to go and what tone I wanted to communicate. I am also grateful to **Emaniahilel** for her incessant reminders and threats that I needed to finish this chapter (and eventually the entire story). I'd also like to send many thanks to **Ravenslair **for being a conscientious and consistent reviewer and never failing to poke me in the direction of this epic.

__

_**Walk on Water  
**__By Kysra  
_  
Chapter Three: Perfect 7

-Titan's Tower, Present-

Time passes slowly as he sits and waits for some sign that she will pull through . . . whatever it is that buries her beneath closed eyelids, restrains her with leather straps buckled tight. He hates the sterile white and silver of the infirmary, the outward empty cleanliness, the sharp smell and sharper fluorescent light. A hand comes up to sift through oiled, tumbled strands as air is blown out of his mouth from heavy lungs.

It has been twenty-six hours, three minutes, and thirty-eight seconds since Raven was sedated; fourteen hours, sixteen minutes, and ten seconds since she was expected to come around; and three hours, forty-five minutes, and fifty-seven seconds since she had her second seizure.

Through it all, he cannot help but note she is not healing herself, not even moving through the stages of normal sleep.

In the bleached light of the overhead lamps, he works through every memory of every word she has ever spoken for him to hear as he is a lauded detective, and if anyone could piece together what is happening in his Tower, in his friend, it is Robin; but the clues are sparse, the puzzle is missing entire (crucial) sections, and no matter how much he may wish otherwise, he is no miracle worker. Raven has been a secret-keeper for so long, she has perfected the art of bluffing until every syllable is accepted as truth out-of-hand, learned to breathe silence so completely that her friends simply take what she offers without begging extra scraps. He hates himself for protecting that aspect of her, for allowing her those secrets which have become so utterly detrimental that she now lay unmoving and broken, a sickly pale doll, lifeless and cold.

"Hey, man." He barely hears the door swish open, doesn't quite comprehend the greeting when Beast Boy moves into his line of vision, sliding a green hand over Raven's limp one and squeezing. "Any change?"

"No." His voice is rough with disuse and anger's cousin – desperation - as he looks up to find that the glinting mischief in BB's eyes has dimmed to dark shadows. They are all suffering, and he is helpless to alleviate the stress, useless against the tide of events that brought them here. Briefly, he wonders if this is how Raven has always felt, if he had ever truly known her at all.

"Maybe if we found her mirror? It's missing right? And it was pretty important to her - she nearly killed me that time I got sucked in and –"

"We don't know how it works, and Raven obviously can't use it." If his voice is bleak, he thinks, it is the only outward expression of the cracks that have begun to widen and fissure in his soul.

BB's answering downcast look is expected but breaks him just a little more. It is a simple thing to believe that he has the key, knows the pain of recognizing he doesn't. The feeling is reflected in the slight bowed shoulders of his friend - the Titans' little brother, in the tears that suddenly appear but are quickly diminished.

The green hand resting on Raven's pets at her hair then falls into a fist. "It was just a suggestion, Dude." There is something in the words that lick fire at his skin, a charge that begins in the coarsened tone - so reminiscent of the Beast - and spreads, thickening the air.

Robin glares at the younger directly, eyes focused with the intent to cut, his mind set on destruction. The tension is a living thing, crashing and pushing and pulling even if he has not moved from this room, this chair for the better part of an entire day; and he is itching for a fight. "I don't recall asking for your input. "

For a bare moment, BB's eyes flash; and he almost sighs with the relieving recognition that he has gone too far. But Beast Boy doesn't retort or reprimand or leave, just watches with a look that resembles pity but is a thousand times more agonizing and shameful to see. In that moment, he feels a sense of unreality where this goofy young boy is the mature, responsible adult, and Robin is the unruly, temperamental child.

"Ya know, instead of sitting here like a statue, you should be researching or doing something useful. Or maybe you just don't ca-"

He is out the chair and pinning Garfield against the edge of Raven's examination table before he even realizes there was intent to move, and his voice - when it comes - is unfamiliar to himself. "**I** don't care? **I** caught her when that psychotic bastard threw her off the fucking stratosphere. **I** convinced her to stay when she wanted to leave. **I** contacted Batman for help when I couldn't figure out what else to do. **I** haven't slept or left her side since she collapsed; and you have the balls to suggest that **I** don't care? Where they HELL have _you_ been?" The hissing string of words are edged with a ribbon of mania; but BB does not back down, levelly meeting narrowed - if masked - eyes without fear.

"She was scared. Ya know, in her head? In the mirror that time. I remember freaking out when the creepy-ugly dude showed up; but I wasn't really, really worried until I saw her face. She was so scared of him, of what he could do to me and Cy if we didn't get out before the gate closed, so she was ready to sacrifice herself even though she said she couldn't beat him." He pauses for a moment to swallow against the decreasing pressure of Robin's hands around his neck, slack-faced and serious. "Right now, lying here, it reminds me of that. Her face looks the same, like she's scared and hopeless and ready to give up; and I think it's because she can feel that we are too."

Strong hands fall limp and weak to quivering sides as Robin staggers back into his chair, and Beast Boy calmly turns back to petting Raven's hair. Time passes slowly as he sits and waits for some sign that she will pull through . . . whatever it is that buries her beneath closed eyelids, restrains her with leather straps buckled tight. And he holds onto the silence that flows so turbulently in this room that he hates. It feels like the silence in his mind where traces of Raven once dwelled.

_-Four Years Ago, Azarath-_

There was talk of 'it' (as there were no words for _battle_, _victory_ or _defeat _in the Azarathian vocabulary) being 'over' (denoting the moment the demons were successfully sealed behind the Great Door once again), but Azar knew better, the knowledge of a thousand secrets and gambles weighing upon her mind and stealing her strength. Her hands tingled and ached with the residual energies of the Great Door and the efforts made upon the several rips within the dimensional fabric. The work drained her even now as she sat at the hearth and watched the shadows play across the ashen skin of her acolyte.

Raven lay cradled and fetal within the crocheted confines of a strung hammock set up in the darkest corner of Azar's house - one of the few, privileged structures left untouched by the demonic invasion. Her bony, little hands, always so small like the rest of her, were tucked up beneath her chin and clasped tightly, white knucked and trembling with the force of her distress. Even if she had not heard the harsh whispers, noticed the glancing looks, known of Azar's efforts to shield her, the churning fear and sharp anger of a hundred survivors crackled and burned against her flesh, painting her subconscious magma and ash.

Azar watched the child without pity or remorse. She had never believed in regretting that which could not be changed, and The Venerable did not deal in absolutes. As the weary woman guarded her charge, she deliberated on the many events which had converged to spawn this moment. There were many covert truths that resided within her bosom just as there were many more perceived possibilities shifting and bunching within her mind; and Azar was becoming increasingly aware that - perhaps - her own dear departed mentor had been right in the title he had chosen for her all those years ago.

_You will find that despite your protestations, yours is a natural wisdom born not of knowledge but the lack of it. In this way, wisdom teaches us while reminding us of our imperfections.  
_  
In all of his teachings, her mentor - The Author Theyador - had never mentioned the limited character of time, and now that the insubstantial force was slipping through her crippled fingers, she felt somehow cheated though she knew life was not so simple as to be ended by mere death.

"Venerable One?" Sabe spoke from the open door, the bandages clumsily administered to her face seemed a morphing, dark shadow among her bright features. In her cupped hands lay a simple raw oak wood box - the only personal item Arella had taken from Earth with the Passing.

It had been a special request that the trinket be brought to her home. There had been nothing left of Arella once the demons and Raven were through, and Azar knew the lack of true Rites had the Earth woman's daughter on edge. Very little had ever been offered to little Raven in the way of reliable figures or stability. All of her trust had been vested in Azar at a very young age, and Azar was Temple. In this way, ritual became Raven's stability. Religious rites, processions, incense burning, Lightings, Cleansing rules, and prescribed mantras defined security for the Little Bird. With the denial of her own mother's Lighting - after everything else - Azar felt it might be time for honesty, and . . .

_Hope _. . .

Eyes focused on the silent waif in the corner, Azar rose slowly, suffering the creaking of her deteriorating joints and gestured to Sabe to join her outside where a choice bit of privacy might be had. They walked together a small distance, simply breathing in the faint traces of smoke and old blood still hanging dead in the air.

"Has she eaten?" Sabe ventured the inquiry, shifting to place her fingers at the edge of her mouth, tracing over the blood-dyed bandage.

Brows drawn and vision blurring, Azar paused in her walk and leaned against a nearby tree bough. "Your concern does you credit. The Acolyte is well, considering."

The younger woman's arms hugged the box to her chest. "She is controlling herself again?"

"Indeed. At times she looks through me and confesses her fault in Arella's death; however, I am less sure that blame rests with such a tender Soul. She is aware now that her power is that of a demon, though I doubt she fully understands the true source of such power."

Sabe's visible eye shifted away and above, catching the moonlight and fostering a pensive look. "I believe, Venerable One, that steps must be taken. The Council begins to beg her departure."

Sighing, Azar let the full brunt of her weight sink upon rough bark and strong wood. "They have awaited this day without understanding the consequences of such measures. Trigon's primary purpose was not to bring us pain, but to unlock a portion of Raven's future."

"The Prophecy is certain, then?" Sabe seemed uncertain, tripping over the words, hesitating in her glance. Azar did not begrudge her student's understated fear. Azar had not fallen under the Seed of Trigon as Sabe had.

"You know well my view regarding such nonsense." Pale lips tightened over rigid teeth. "Raven has several roads before her. She is not limited to the one path the priests would have a shaken people believe in."

A long silence fell then while Azar struggled to control the fluttering beat of her heart and Sabe sought an inner calm that had been lost with the fresh death of her only child. There were many bad feelings swirling through the atmosphere, a dark taint that seemed to be visible in the night environs; but these were not as troubling as the prospects ahead.

"I do not intend to allow them dominion over her fate," Azar answered the unspoken question before stating matter-of-factly, "My time is nearing."

Sabe's head snapped towards the High Priestess, stepping closer. "How long?"

"Hours at least, days at most. In any case, I entrust the care and protection of my student to you."

"But Azar –"

"You shall be Named 'The Honorable' for you have ever been such, more so than any other Soul born to this place."

"Venerable One, I –"

Azar held up one hand even as she met Sabe's diminished gaze directly. "Our people have steeped themselves in the search for some measure of redemption for the sins of our ancestors. I trust that you will lead them along a more selfless path. Your example has been one of sacrifice carried upon the shoulders of grace. Such an existence is honor in its most elemental form."

Sabe swallowed loudly before bowing her head and genuflecting reverently. "I accept your Naming, Venerable One, and shall endeavor to one day be deserving of such an august title."

It wasn't an official ceremony, but it would do in the absence of one. Sabe had been groomed since childhood to be Azar's successor, and Azar was anything but negligent with important details. Time rolled by like the stream some distance ahead, taking her current existence to its end so that a rebirth in another form might occur. She was not afraid; however, her inherent pragmatism would not justify the leaving of unfinished business.

Feeling slightly stronger now, lighter, Azar took Sabe's proffered arm as they began to distance themselves from the house again.

"What of the box? What is its purpose?" Sabe's arm tightened around Azar's when the older woman stumbled.

"Pandora opened her box to release the evils of humanity only to trap Hope and hold it close. Whether Raven heeds the priests or chooses to remain in Azarath, she will need something to grasp onto, something to believe in, something . . . to convince her that she has more options than are visible."

Sabe's eye widened, her breath catching. "You intend on passing the Rings to her."

Bowing her head, Azar touched one burning hand to the bracelets adorning Sabe's wrist. "They are rightfully yours, by order of The Founder; however, –"

Shaking her head, Sabe took up the wizened hand in both of hers. "You are truly wise, Azar. She will be a portal no matter her choices, but . . . with such a conduit –"

"She will be able to control who . . . or what passes through her. Regardless, I fully plan to follow her wherever she deems a fit place to settle. I wish to bear witness to the unfurling of her future."

Frowning, Sabe steered the ailing High Priestess toward the house where the subject of their worry lay nestled and quiet. "Raven will not take your passing well."

"She knows the time draws closer. I ask that you give the box with the Rings safely sealed inside. Give them to her the day after my egress. Tell her, then, that - when the moment arrives for their use - she will know how to access their power. Until such time, she shall guard them with all the power she possesses."

Strong hands rested upon frail shoulders. "You will be sorely missed."

Azar smiled softly though her breath became short and heavy. "I will not stray far. Should the end come too soon, continue my work. Raven will need the way to remain open if she is to find the necessary means of steering her own course."

"Will she succeed, do you think?"

"My acolyte is obedient though not retiring. I have faith that she will draw Souls near her who will give her strength where she is weak and be her heart. There is no single preconceived outcome. One word or action may tip the balance in Raven's favor."

They stared at each other - past to present to future and back - paused and thinking at the open threshold before Sabe handed the wooden box to Azar and Azar caressed Sabe's uninjured cheek.

"I will do everything as you requested, Venerable One." Sabe whispered so as not to disturb the house's sole occupant.

"Thank you, Honorable One." Azar wheezed back, turning into her darkened home.

A week later, The Venerable Azar was dead.

_-Titans Tower, Present-_

_You're with friends. It's over.  
- Robin, Birthmark  
_

The days pass, nothing changes, and time ceases to exist for Robin - not as completely as Raven once commanded but progressively losing significance. He seems paused now to outsiders, a dark glitter amidst the blinding white, still and fading - unmoving and immovable.

He is lost to a projection of memories, scratched and stained with nostalgia. The film is frayed and smeared over in areas; catching at times, re-mastered in others; and there is a ghost projectionist winding and re-winding, forwarding and stopping without rhyme or reason - without discernible control.

The first time he meets her is manipulated into romantic shades of dusky sienna, but the mental camera shies from her face. It is shadowed dark and featureless beneath the cover of a faux maroon shawl though he knows the streetlight had angled into her eyes, making her skin shine like a little earthbound moon. A skip-jump, and he is swinging from a rope in black, white, and gray as she falls, thread-bare and unconscious, to the unfeeling asphalt below, Slade staring him down.

Soon enough the reel ends to flap in chaos before another is run behind his eyes. Everything is blue and black and malevolent as he wades through thick water, a small scrap of material clutched in his shaking hand. Soft strains of misdirected light swarm and fall upon her, hanging by the voluminous hood, and he sees her face – bare and closed . . . afraid, even in unconsciousness.

Sometimes the images overlap, double exposed and hazy. There is an inherent falsity in these scenes, a shadowed tinge that speaks of nightmares half-forgotten and fantasies spooling about his brain. There is the moment he loses grip on her hand as she is sucked into the oblivion of Mambo's hat, never to be retrieved. His heart stops and fingers flex with the memory of her flesh clasping glove, the warmth of her grip, the strength and taste of her fear. It is a bright, backlit, black and white cloud of movement and thunderous emotion; but it is soon followed by a mind-portrait done in rich, seductive crimson and violet and navy. She lay asleep and peaceful, naked arms and moon-kissed shoulders, violently purple hair gleaming long across his pillow. He reaches to touch but pauses and wonders, _just a dream_.

It is all quiet images and muted tones. Nothing piques his interest because it is familiar and thoroughly studied – old territory warmed over with desperation, yet the thematic atmosphere of distance remains to echo through his ears like a chorus in a cave. She has always been a world away, he knows, a part of her kept locked inside her dimension of origin he has so carefully ignored since her first appearance in his.

They had been young then, a strange thing to think when he has not yet reached his eighteenth birthday. Perhaps it is more accurate to muse on the comparative simplicity of that time. Yes . . . He had been a simple boy with a mind full of cookie-cutter notions like justice and vengeance and redemption; and she had been a simple girl on a one-track mission without a real destination.

Black and white, right and wrong, guilt and innocence . . .

_Who can I blame, Raven? How can I fight something I can't see?  
_  
Despair gives way to darkness as the camera shuts down and his mind is left blank and reeling with questions once again. There is a stabbing pain in his temple and a tremble in his hands. He knows exhaustion is just a few hours away. He understands that he is treading on dangerous ground, allowing energy reserves to drain and overtaxing his brain; but he has made a multitude of promises that bind him to wakefulness, and given the choice, he would choose to be right where he is and occupied similarly.

"Friend Robin?" Starfire's usual brightness has dimmed with the continued absence of their teammate, and her confident nature seems to have shrunken to timidity. Her steps are slow and calculated to mask the clink and scratch of the tray of plates and utensils she carries. "You are hungry?" She tries again when met with silence, and he can hear the tentative tremble in her voice. It makes him feel more intensely powerless.

When he says nothing again, she places the tray on a nearby corner table next to the Box where it has been resting since Robin gave up on opening it an hour ago.

"Have you opened the box of Raven?" She stands next to him now, her body turned away and towards Raven's bed. He doesn't look up to see her face, doesn't need to. He already knows the expression in her eyes. It is a lesser degree of anguish than clouds his own.

There are few and sundry images which include the Box, but those few – he is convinced – are essential to concluding its mystery.

He hears the shuffling of her feet, can imagine the slight shudder of her hands as they take up the trinket, turn it this way and that, then shrink in wonder at how . . . _ordinary_ it is. Robin knows the feeling well, has experienced the sharp disappointment continuously, repeatedly, every single time his eyes skim a blunted corner, scan the splintered cover. It is an emotion bordering on frustration, one that is set at slow burn, aching forth and bursting unexpectedly through his temples and throbbing into his sinus cavity.

Star is transfixed, as he had been at first. She is silent and quiet, and the only reason he knows she is still in the room is the slight catch and fall of her breath that echoes above the buzzing in his ears.

"Friend Raven told me of her world once." Her voice is strained and hesitant as if she is fighting the words, as if she understands that she is betraying a secret confidence; but he doesn't stop her as he would have previously. He is weary of secrets and mysteries and boxes and breakdowns; and his will turns now to the gathering of information no matter how ill-gained.

Star sighs and paces to stand beside him once again, and again, his gaze does not move from Raven's supine form. "This box of wood could not exist there."

Robin shifts but retains his reticent silence. He wants to tell her that he has already reasoned the same conclusion; but something stays him. Perhaps it is the lilting hope in her voice, or maybe it is that hearing the revelation from her, so earnest, makes it new and malleable.

_I come from Azarath._

There was a subtle gravity, an almost discernible weight to every word that Raven has uttered about Azarath. It was something in her eyes, something missing yet tangible; empty but overflowing; impossible to describe and – somehow – here they were . . . trying.

_Who, Raven?_ He growled internally, wanting to shake the comatose body.

"She spoke of her parents for a small time; but it was enough for me to understand." Bronze fingers trail over Raven's tiny, ghost-pale hand before smoothing over chapped lips and still-closed eyelids. "The box and Raven are the same."

The spider web of thread-thin fissures in his mind collapse into chaos as a vital piece falls and his thoughts disintegrate with quiet violence. Blood-shot eyes widen and a stagnant mouth opens to gasp and gape as Starfire lowers to her knees before him, her hands now resting upon his, holding them as effectively as she catches and holds his broken gaze.

"Do not be angry, dear friend. Do not blame Raven."

_She never . . . It was always there, always right there in front of us, and I didn't –_

His heart constricts and synapses fire as a blinding realization comes to the fore though clarity is still some distance away, numbing his skin to Star's touch, deafening him to her words. She watches him with watery eyes, smiles a tremulous smile; but still he says nothing and everything, shouting within and breathing fire.

He is weary with knowledge and swallows bitter self-hatred, can feel his mouth lock into a line of grim severity, the knuckles of his hands bunching and pulling with the force of his clenching beneath Starfire's gentle fingers.

_So careful, dropping hints all this time and I was too oblivious to catch on. Too stupid, too absorbed in other things, too –  
_  
Star rises in the midst of his musing, derailing his train of thought and the memories alighting behind his eyes. Robin believes her to leave, but she sets herself before him again in due time, cradling the Box and harboring a small galaxy of hope in her eyes, in her lips that turn up in a bare rendition of her usual happy expression. Softly, she places the Box upon his lap and, just as softly, speaks one last time.

"The box and Raven are the same."

And just like that - after three days of lingering defeat - Robin understands.

_Help her_, he prays. _Help her, please_.

_-Somewhere underground-_

Resurrection was much like birth - a sudden explosion of breath; an oppressive kind of pressure squeezing the body; a moment of intense shock that forces a scream from burning lungs and tears of blinded eyes; and pain, a billion pin pricks around and beneath unsure limbs and molded backside. Shaking hands curved around a perfect neck as trembling fingers studied the smooth transition of jaw to cheek. Breath was intentionally labored, the once more earthbound mind unable to comprehend the sound or mechanics of it.

Movement was hindered by barriers on either side, above and below; but muscles were stretched and tested, the once free spirit adjusting to the weight of flesh and bone once again. Honey brown eyes opened slowly, wincing even in the dim light to process the images of new surroundings. The acrid scent of sulfur seemed to assault the delicate olfactory nerves even as it was assumed that this place was some sort of volcanic chamber - all porous stone and deadly gas and flowing unbearable heat beneath and surrounding the birthing dais.

However, new life had yet to wilt under these difficult circumstances, and as arms raised and fingers flexed, spreading before an interested if bemused gaze, wonderment turned to despair for the knowledge that death could not come again because death was not over. Still, the exploration continued with lips pursed and teeth biting at the inside of one cheek. The skin of the upraised hand was creamy, flawless in an almost arrogant, artificial sort of way; the nails, well-manicured and boasting a naturally dusky rose color. Memory whispered that the previous vessel had not been so perfectly made. Spirit answered that evil work often begat false beauty.

Identity slowly trickled in and hands fell back to run along flanks and trace over a slightly curved belly. _No navel_, she noted dryly. The absence of that bit of her former physiology was merely a bitter affirmation of a slowly forming theory. _And hairless_. Careful fingers stroked at arms and tummy and face and thigh to confirm the discovery though the opposite hand sifted and tangled through long ebony locks that seemed piled carefully up and away from neck and shoulders.

Something resembling a grin broke on the infant yet sultry mouth. _The lord giveth_, she inwardly chuckled as hands cupped heavy breasts; _and he taketh away_, this as she found bitter nothingness between her legs. _No longer alive. No longer a woman_. Just a shade of what she once was.

She already felt tired but knew she had allowed enough time to acclimate to her sudden . . . situation. Pushing up on weak elbows, she bowed her head for a moment to inspect torso, legs, and feet. Once, she had hated an amoeba-shaped birthmark on her hip; and now, she mourned that it was no longer there. Experimentally, toes were wiggled and knees were bent. She tried not to notice or question the bed of tiny birds' bones she rested upon; and it was with a grave sort of acceptance that she realized she did not bleed.

Arella knew better than to assume that simple resurrection meant actual life. She was just a soul crammed into a fleshy mannequin. _An unwilling one at that. _

This fairly stunk of impermanence, and that's how she came to the conclusion that this body was most probably the responsibility of a foe rather than a friend. Validation was not long in coming and sounded with a velvety smooth chuckle.

"Sleeping Beauty has awakened, I see."

"**_You_**." She snarled and though the word was delivered with an awkward tongue, her voice was sharp as a whip and ripped through the thick atmosphere to the masked figure just to the side.

Though Arella could not see his face – garbed as he was in brown and black from head to toe, she had the distinct impression that he was smirking and – possibly – _laughing_ at her even as he swept a graceful bow. "My reputation precedes me. It is an honor to finally meet the beloved wife of my master."

Gingerly, Arella shifted to sitting before bracing to lift herself out of the stony birthing bed. Modesty did not exist anymore for a body that was not of her living memory. "Forgive me if I'm not impressed with the welcoming committee."

Standing was easier than anticipated, and soon enough she had conquered balance well enough to confront him in a more direct manner.

"_Slade_." His name was a venomous curse spit out under accusing, slit-narrowed eyes. This man had harmed her child, this _thing_ sought to torment her daughter further; and despite the need to speak, though her new body was shaking with barely suppressed rage, Arella did nothing. There was a working suspicion unfurling in her mind and a deep knowledge reawakening in her heart; but she knew through trial and death and shock that to breathe her thoughts was to alert _him_ of her own intentions.

Again that deep chuckle. Once more the unsettling imagined visage of his smirk. "You have more grit that I imagined. I was expecting a cowering mouse."

And she had once been such but no more. Angela was dead – had been for some time, longer than even Arella herself. "Then you won't be half as disappointed when you realize the mistake you've made by resurrecting _me_." She would not say more. She would not give away her plans in the way he had with only a glance. Time was running fast and away, and every second past was a second more she would need to compensate for.

Casting one last piercing look into his visible eye, to the glowing red specter of her _husband_'s mark, Arella brushed past his bulk and the ill-concealed dimensional door; and she wasn't surprised in the least when neither servant nor lord attempted to stop her. They were counting on her to act on sentiment – something they could not comprehend, to lead them to her child.

"I wouldn't have taken you to be one for public displays of nudity, either." He laughed. It was like a booming ceremonial drum against the churning rumble of rushing lava and hissing gas, entirely unpleasant as it bruised along to reverberate through her new skin.

Gritting her teeth against the biting retort that arose, Arella squared her shoulders and kept walking, a priority list of action already forming behind her eyes. _First, clothes_. The thought was wry – almost mocking - but without self-recrimination; and as her steps carried her further into the dark labyrinth of volcanic tunnel and unlit cave, her feet and flanks registered the binding pressure of rock and heat but notably no sensation of rent or burning flesh.

Each pace took her from the power that had gifted her with reanimation. Every step weakened the tenuous ties between body and soul. Part of her didn't care, welcomed release; but the greater part knew she needed to use this opportunity. She had been kept from Raven in life then wrested away with death; and Arella absolved she would not waste this chance to save her daughter from her mistakes.

_Won't be able to hold it much longer . . . _

As if in answer to the stray thought, she suddenly faltered, nearly impaling herself upon a stalagmite, then resolutely clambered back to standing. And just as she began to entertain a slight wind of claustrophobia, something light and fluttery settled upon her shoulder and pressed a feather-soft head against her cheek, cooing lightly against the cacophony.

"I was wondering when you would get here." There was a palpable relief in her voice and a calm sort of half-smile upon her lips.

She would be able to find the surface without worry of collapse or fractionation now; and though she did not know the way, she was sure of her destination.

_Home._

_-Titans Tower, Present-_

_I shouldn't have dragged you into this. Any of you. But you're in, and you need to know. I need to tell you. When I was born, they looked into my future.  
- Raven, Birthmark  
_

There has always been something bittersweet and achingly exquisite about Raven - indefinable but utterly and substantially there. At first, Robin believes it to be the noted look of nothing in her eyes, that seemingly stony expression she uses to protect herself from the world - from herself; but during the course of their comradeship, especially with the passage of recent events, the Boy Wonder is coming to understand the depth of her; and though he has spent the better part of four days closeted in the brightly lit, sterile white infirmary - struggling, falling apart, seeking her only to be denied rest, it is in the darkness of his room and hers that Raven, silenced though her physical form is, begins to speak to him.

And somehow it makes sense that it should be so. Raven dwells in shadow; and it is only natural that he would find clarity where she is most comfortable.

It showers over him like a moonbeam shroud or crown of sunshine, illuminating but slightly melancholy, painful - _surreal_ and almost supernatural in its multi-sensory play. Yet, it is not so obvious as the whisper of her voice but a sort of subtle psychic Morse code, dotting and dashing across his consciousness and revealing the secrets she had hidden so steadfastly. There was the ebb of emotions not his, teasing at his temples and just out of reach; and then the flow of disconnected memories dancing about in a barely visible rainbow along the edges of his vision. His skin tingles.

_Magic is in the air._

He imagines that this is what Raven feels when she is in one of her trance-like meditations, and without conscious thought, he begins to mimic her usual posture, glove-bare fingers seeking to tangle through the fine web wrapping and stirring around him; eyes closed but exposed, his mask lying uselessly upon the deep violet carpet; heavy titanium alloy cape stripped from his shoulders; and bare feet folded over his knees in a perfect lotus.

Here, now, he feels open and - _finally_ - able to think without the frenzied panic that has ridden his thoughts since Raven's collapse.

Here, now, he feels . . . something similar to _peace_.

There is the smell of an Azarathian summer tickling his nose (_she had always loved the sound and feel of the grass beneath her bare feet though she could never reveal her enjoyment_) and the taste of Azar's special brew turning bitter over his tongue (_she missed it, not because it was her favorite but because the drink had always been laced with Azar's serene essence_) - knowledge that should have been impossible as he has never been to Azarath, has rarely heard Raven mention what it was like; nor has he ever met the revered Azar.

And, somehow, he _knows_ - as his eyes open to stare out before the still-broken window and the yet-unclean blood stains set black into the violet of Raven's bedroom carpet - that his unearthly friend has never felt anything so powerful as the moment of Azar's death. He had felt it in his bones the night their minds touched, has known the echoing sadness and guilt she carries with her always, even if it has taken months to comprehend the source of that still-tender ache.

_She had wanted . . . still wished . . .  
_  
_You know me better than anyone._ She had said it, and because she had not been looking directly at him while she said it, he knows she truly meant it . . . in a way. After all, he did know her better than anyone - but only better than anyone _currently alive_.

He had openly acknowledged their bond's supernatural existence to himself shortly after its establishment; however, he has never spoken or questioned Raven about the very nature and extent of it. There was no need to as it was an intrinsic truth that the Bond had never been an equal exchange. However, with time, with suffering, it has given him an insight into the workings of her mind, how she operates, and the demons that lurk behind her amethyst eyes.

One of those demons had killed Azar and whispers Raven's own regret that she had not died too.

"What are you doing?" Cyborg's voice comes softly. It is late and though Beast Boy is a notoriously heavy sleeper, they have all been on edge and restless.

Robin neglects to face his friend, choosing instead to finger the mask lying limp near his hip and staring listlessly out to the night sky. "Keeping her company." His voice is thick and rough with disuse, but the tone suggests whatever Hell he had descended into over the last few days, he is climbing his way out.

Victor's heavy sigh seems to echo in the stillness, louder than the clink and whir of his robotic body edging more fully into the room. "I told you to go to sleep hours, days ago."

"And I did, in the chair, in the infirmary."

"This isn't healthy, Rob. What good will you be to her or this team if you're on the edge of collapse yourself?" Staring down into his lap, Robin does not notice Cyborg lowering himself to sit similarly nor the the mournful look the robotic man shoots at him. "Don't make me drug you, man; because if you fuck up, I'm not going to clean up after you."

A shadow of his former grin appears, and Robin does not let go the warm feeling of serenity he has earned. Instead, he asks the question burning at the back of his mind, the question birthed with Starfire's words a few days ago. "Do you remember when she stopped talking about Azar?"

There is the oppressive type of silence, and it stifles their breath until Victor allows another sigh and turns his face to the moon and stars. "Not sure, but it seems like it was right after BB and Star joined."

Robin nods absently. He had been thinking the same. "Always sacrificing herself, isn't she?" There is a slight crack in his voice, a subtle hesitance in his words, as tears - unheeded - pool between his eyelashes despite his every effort to stem the flow.

It has been a long time coming.

"It's not so surprising. She's never really owned herself, ya know? Even when she did say something about her past, it was almost as if she were repeating something she had heard in passing, not something she had experienced personally." Like physical blows, the words shatter against their skin, causing both men to bleed a little; and Robin runs a hand over his face, wondering at the unfamiliar feel of his own skin.

"Why isn't she healing herself, Cy?" It is a whiny, weak rhetorical, and the floodgates open with its passage even as the Titan's leader falls into sobs as Cyborg slings an arm over and across bowed shoulders.

"I don't know, man. I don't know. But her brain waves are stabilizing. That's a good sign, and we finally fished her mirror out of the Bay . . . even if it is dark." Then tentatively, "I think she might wake up soon, if she keeps progressing like this."

The younger shudders and rocks like a child. It is strange, this outpouring peace-stained torment and hellish relief. He has never loved Cyborg more than in this moment; and the two hold each other against the tide with nothing more than a supportive arm and communicative silence for eternal minutes and too-short seconds.

When Robin is composed again, when the tremors have ceased and he can string a single, complete thought together without breaking into tears, Cyborg pats his back and asks after the Box. It is left unspoken, their fears of her blank mirror and what the absence of trapping magic might mean. The Box is all that bears their collective hope now.

_The box and Raven are the same.  
_  
"It belonged to her mother." Robin states simply, wiping at his eyes and sniffling, coming suddenly to the conclusion.

Standing, Victor looks down upon his devestated friend and thinks - not for the first time - that there is something deeper, stronger running current through all of this than he could possibly register. "What do you think is in it?"

Running a hand through his hair, Robin shrugs and shifts to stand as well. "I don't know, but I've been treating this as a key when it's just a tool. I think Raven was protecting it the same way she protects her emotions."

A whistle of appreciation and a cluck of the tongue. "We were never meant to see it, were we?"

"I don't think so, no. At least, Raven was hoping we would never have to see it."

"Our girl has some serious explaining to do when she wakes up," Victor grunts as he ambles tiredly to the door.

But the Boy Wonder is still watching the night, pursing his lips, and keeping the tears at bay. "No. No, she doesn't." He speaks softly, and though Cyborg catches the mild reprimand, he does not comment. Instead, there is a light, almost comfortable pause and both boys entertain that the past few days, months have been an imagined nightmare. "Goodnight, Vic."

Victor guards Robin's back as he steps out over the threshold before ghosting the wish, "Happy Birthday, Rob."

Strangely, it is the best birthday Robin has ever had.

_-WoW-_

_Red as blood, the sky seemed to flow downward to touch the jagged horizon, cut by the burning rubble of the city. Streets, empty of life, smoking gray clouds and trailing the broken limbs of former citizens, seemed to teem with darkness born malevolence. Even the waters of the East River were fiery and still with slithering, thick lava tearing through the Earth's submerged crust. Everything reflected the touch of fire and death._

_She took it all in again as if it were the first time, mouth dropped open with horror, eyes wide and disbelieving. There was no Slade to whisper in her ear this time, no words she could squeeze past the bubble of a scream blocking her throat. Flying, teetering unsteadily through the air, she haunted the places that held meaning to her only to find that those buildings had been reduced to ash and scorch marks upon the fractured foundations. They were, by far, the hardest hit in the destruction._

_Swallowing hard, she found the courage to rise above the Hell on Earth Jump City had become to peruse the dilapidated wreck of her (former) home, the Tower. Bent under the weight of her released hatred, it's broken and blackened hulk seemed to bow towards her in supplication, just as she knew it also acted as a tombstone for those who had been closest to her, to those who had braved her fall and suffered for it. _

_Why else would she have left it standing? _

_Floating over the fire-tinged waters of the river she had known so well, she numbly perceived the absence of her reflection. It didn't matter. Her existence had only meant the end of those she loved. It was just as well she couldn't see the monster looking out from behind her eyes._

_Her landing was soft, quiet, the sound drowned by the overwhelming silence. She only prayed she would not have to hear their screams when the time came, when everything came to pass as she feared it would._

_She found them easily, rallied as they were near the river bank. Dragging her feet, relishing the muted sound of scuffing rubber soles against dead earth, she stood before the living statue of Starfire. _

_Overwhelmed as she was by the reaching figures surrounding her - small as children, the souls of the damned seeking consolation and dragging their savior down with them, she was still beautiful . . . panicked, confused, lovely. Starfire did not seem as frenzied in her pose as the others. Her heart was too pure to turn away anyone needing help, too innocent to see that evil came in all shapes and sizes, that it could wear the face of a friend. It was because of this that she would be the first to fall before Raven's power. The Tamaranian princess would be lured easily and disarmed without much effort._

_It would be simple, and Raven hated herself for knowing it._

_Taking a few steps past the slim alien's stone figure, she approached Beast Boy and could not help a wry, self-deprecating half-smile. "It took a bit of doing, but I finally got you to shut up."_

_His face betrayed his panic and pain, the anguish of not being able to save himself let alone a friend in need. She briefly touched the hand outstretched toward Starfire, the hand Starfire never saw reaching out to save her. His legs had been held and tangled with the arms of those who had risen to do her bidding - spirits easily swayed by the temptation of false redemption.  
_

_She snorted and wanted to cut out her own tongue._

_Drifting, her fingers passed over the frowning features of the little imps of corruption that would be her temporary army, and she wondered if it would be painful, turning into stone. The question hovered on her lips as she rounded a larger figure to face Cyborg._

_His face was tilted upwards, as if attempting to invoke some sort of divine intervention. There were more imps around him than Starfire or Beast Boy as he was bigger, stronger, and would need to be weighed down before being summarily defeated. The horrified expression on his face, the betrayal evident there . . . She suddenly recognized that he would know her to be the one to bring his downfall._

_Silently, she watched him and imagined he yet watched her. She had never thought that gouging out her eyes would seem such an inviting prospect._

_Releasing her cloak from the broach gifted her a lifetime ago, she covered his head with the dark cloth, shielding his eyes from her presence and hoped he had not suffered. Then, she was moving again as her heart sped up and a wad of saliva lodged in her windpipe just above that ever-present bubble of suppressed scream._

_It would be hard to look at him, she knew. He and Cyborg had been the first kind faces she had experienced upon coming to her mother's home dimension. They had been her first friends, and with them, she had forged bonds she believed stronger than her father's hold. But while Cyborg had always coddled her, he had treated her as an equal. For that, if nothing else, her heart valued him above the rest._

_Someone . . . someone had taken off his mask - it seemed - before he was frozen so beautifully. She briefly tried to predict if it would be her, if he would allow her to get that close to him when it became apparent that she would doom them to such a treacherous fate. Reaching, caressing, her hands traced the contours of his tortured features, recording the feel of slightly eroded, coarse stone. _

_He seemed to be locked in the action of calling out, his face and pose a testament to the inexhaustible determination that had continually impressed her. She couldn't help but hope it had been her name that was trying to leave his lips. If he had tried to talk her down then she could forgive him for being defeated. Those few times she had been on the verge of losing control, he had always been the one her subconscious responded to. He had always been the one to make the effort in calling her back to herself first._

_"I'm sorry." Her lips moved without sound, forming the words while her voice remained buried. Her apology felt hollow, but it was Robin who deserved it the most. He had taken the risk and gotten burned in the most heinous way, had put his trust in her strength only to pay the price for her own weakness, had given her faith and learned the hard way just how unworthy she truly was. "I'm sorry, but I did warn you."_

_Her fingers lingered near his temple before gliding down, down, down. Soon her palm rested on his chest, covering the 'R' badge above his heart. Tears of blood leaked from her eyes as she realized stupidly that she had wanted to feel his heart beating._

_Perhaps, if she cut out her own heart, she could replace his._

_She stood there for long moments, not minding the unnatural quiet, the angry sky, or the lava diluted river. Her eyes were only for him, and her grief for all of them dripped from her chin to paint the ashes at her feet crimson._

_Silently, unwilling to say goodbye and hoping against hope that it was all a bad dream, she turned on her heel without thinking about where she was going to go next only to be faced with –_

_"Azar?" Her voice was broken even in her mind._

_Her mentor was a bright, glowing white star against the detestable red and black of the city, a beacon of purity amidst the ugliness. Her graying blonde hair flowed about her shoulders in majestic waves of silver and gold - longer than Raven remembered - and her pristine white robes billowed despite the stillness. Azar had never been beautiful, but Raven could not remember a more welcome sight in her life, her blood-crying eyes drinking in the familiar smile and projected warmth._

_"It has been too long, Acolyte. What detained you?" Azar seemed to float as she walked toward her young ward, blue-gray eyes questioning but kind._

_Raven's voice was a whisper as she croaked uselessly, "Azar?"_

_The smile deepened as warm hands wiped the red tears away from gray-pale cheeks. "One and the same. Now, what detained you?"_

_"Detained me?" Raven asked, her voice stronger, her throat still clogged with emotion._

_"From the summoning. Your friend was forced to petition on your behalf given your present condition." One white-glowing hand arced broadly in a wide wave, and suddenly the red sky was gone as was the remains of Jump City and the macabre figures of her stony friends. Instead, they were surrounded by the familiar dark emptiness of Raven's mind-scape. "Fitting," Azar spoke in her usual clipped tone, looking around, her expression a shadow of disapproval._

_"This is the place where my father dwells. Only one section of the scape you helped me construct survives." It felt good, Raven thought, to be student once again, to be protected and accountable. Azar had been the great stable constant in Raven's life. It was one of the major bedrocks of truth that where The Venerable dwelled, Raven was safe from all forces. She had missed that feeling of security almost as much as she had missed the dead woman who inspired it._

_Azar faced Raven directly, not minding the red-eyed misshapen birds perched in a nearby barren tree. "You left Azarath with purpose. What happened between then and now to plant this hopelessness in you? What happened to make you give up so easily?"_

_Falling to her knees before the luminous specter of her former caretaker, Raven bowed her head, hands planted before her in a position of submission. "I will destroy everything I love . . . He said, 'Skies will burn, flesh will turn to stone, the sun will set on your world, never to rise again.'"_

_"Who? Who said such a thing?"_

_"Slade." Raven's voice had lowered to a whisper in the face of her mentor's blunt force question. _

_Unexpectedly gentle fingers urged her chin up. "And you trust the word of this 'Slade?'" Azar's expression was intent and searching, accustomed to reading Raven's closed face._

_Reaching out to hold and be held, Raven fell into Azar's embrace with a small, relieved cry. The negative reply was muffled and unnecessary; but Azar thought it best to give her ward the time she needed to come under control again. Holding the girl, stroking her hair, Azar smiled at the feel of her tears and wished - not for the first time - that little Raven had been given the chance to live life to the fullest. It was such a shame that her full potential would probably never be encouraged or reached due to the very nature of her talents._

_Feeling the teenager shift in her arms, the Venerable High Priestess of Azarath spoke softly, careful of her ward's unstable state. "He doesn't hate you, you know."_

_Leaning against the older woman's shoulder, Raven looked up into icy cool slate gray eyes. "If he does not hate me now, he will learn to fear me. Hate will be found in that fear."_

_The embrace was loosened as Raven was left on the ground, gravel and stone biting into her bare knees, spreading the angry red blood that had dried upon her cheeks and stained the blanched weave of Azar's robes. "I have ever had faith in you, child, and I have never betrayed your trust. Do not insult me by doubting my words. They will never hate nor fear you. If you can trust in anything, trust in that."_

_And suddenly, Raven knew this wasn't a dream, for this wasn't the Azar in her mind, it was the Azar of her life. "How are you here? Why?"_

_"Death is merely a continuation of life. So I had bound myself to you in life, I have bound my soul to you in death. I am here now only to assure you of one thing. Tell me, little bird, what have I stressed to you above all things?"_

_Wide-eyed with awe, Raven produced the lesson Azar had instilled in her memory through countless meditations and examples. "That the course of destiny is never a straight line. It is jagged and unpredictable for at any given time those who make decisions have at least three distinct choices before venturing forward."_

_Azar nodded, meeting Raven's tear-filled gaze steadily. "Just as you have."_

_"But the priests –"_

_"Fortune-telling is an inexact science, and I know well how little you respected the priests. I am reasonably sure their biases had much to do with their words of prediction."_

_"Then . . . I won't destroy everything? I won't bring the apocalypse?"_

_"I am no oracle, Raven, as well you know." Azar turned and began to walk away. "I am merely here to assure you that there are options. Keep the memory of this vision with you. Study it often. You yet travel down an unsafe path, but the future is never set in stone any more than a dream is reality."_

_Raven's face betrayed her yearning as she reached out to the retreating shade. "Azar? Where–"_

_"You will see me again, Acolyte. Until then, you must rise and face the day. Wake up. NOW." Then, as if obeying the command of the teacher, Raven's mind-scape exploded into blinding white light as her body jolted awake._

_-Titans Tower, Present-_

_You're in danger. You have to trust me. _

_ -Raven, Haunted_

When Raven finally wakes after six long days, he positions himself so that he is the first thing she sees.

Her eyes are clouded with confusion and exhaustion as they roll this way and that – here, taking in the fresh tracks on Star's cheeks; there, watching Cyborg lay a restraining hand on a verily bouncing Beast Boy; and over to touch upon the purse of his mouth, the apex of his chin before trailing down to some inconsequential spot on the far wall.

Lips and throat work to produce sound and fail under a thin, hoarsened squeak. He leans closer to perhaps read the words forming; but Cyborg pokes and prods at her sides and limbs. "Sorry, sweetheart. The breathing tube stays until I'm sure you're able to maintain lung function."

Victor doesn't say she has had four seizures, doesn't hint that she stopped breathing for two whole minutes and some odd seconds the first night, doesn't breathe that their hands were tied because no one was sure how certain medications would interact with her physiology. Instead, he travels around the examination table and begins to loosen the leather restraints spanning across her shoulders, midsection, and knees, to release her wrists and ankles from similar bondage; but he stops when she twitches and shakes her head.

_Too dangerous_, Robin interprets. _It's much too early to tell what will happen if she's released._

She subsides for a moment, focusing on the ceiling, the light fixtures, the overhead vents. Then, her gaze drifts and he finds himself trying to follow the trail but can see nothing that would hold her attention, particularly now when she looks half-dead and twice as sleepy. When he returns to her, she is watching him with that steady, settled calm he remembers so well but can't quite believe is still there.

Soon enough, the mutual study is broken by Star's cheerful suggestion that Friend Raven communicate through pen and paper; but Victor gently reminds her that Raven's hands must remain bound for the time being. The tube will be taken out tomorrow morning if all goes well, and Robin has already decided he can stand one more restless night standing guard at her bedside.

It is the next day that the tube comes out, and – after the others are assured of her general health and well-being - they are able to talk – or whisper, in her case. She regards him warily as he braces either hand beside her head, reinforcing the trap of leather straps with the barrier of his torso. His mask prevents her from seeing his intent, and her reluctance to probe prevents her from sensing his turmoil.

The last six days have been Hell on Earth, but he finds himself wanting to laugh and shout from the rooftop that she's alive and the same if a little shaken. Instead, he finds the calm to whisper her name before murmuring a solemn apology.

Raven sighs, gives him a questioning look, wiggles her fingers and looks away. So he tells her the truth, "I have no right to know about that night or anything else, and I shouldn't have kept pushing the issue when it became clear that it made you uncomfortable."

His hand is warmed by a long stream of her breath as she closes her eyes and he studies her profile, then she is glaring up at him again with an expression bordering on _determination_, brow drawn and eyes hard. The look does not match the reedy hush of her voice. "You had every right to ask, and I want you to know. I _need_ you to know."

There is a pause as she gathers herself, takes in air and lets it whistle out between her teeth. She tells him of Slade's message, of the cryptic poem, the words of her priests and her fear. She weaves the tale as if she hasn't lived it, as if it is from one of her story books just as Cyborg noted; and he wants to shake her. But he stays his hands and holds desperately to her voice because just as she needs him to know, he needs to listen.

And when it is seemingly over, she presses her forehead against his wrist. "It is not about this world. What my father plans is personal. Slade said ' the sun will set on **your** world,' and my world is the Titans." Her eyes meet his through the masks they both wear – hers invisible to the eye and his opaque – and the gravity of her gaze grounds him in ways that should never be felt. "He means to destroy you all; and when that happens there will be nothing left for me."

It is then that he appreciates her life for what it is; because the last six days have been Hell on Earth, and he's just beginning to see that the worst is yet to come.

To be continued . .

**More Author's Notes**:

Three things you need to know about me and my writing: (a)I'm a spiritualist who will insert as many religious symbols and myths into the text and subtext that I can possibly fit. (b)I love symmetry. If you pay attention to chapter titles, you'll note certain things within the text itself. (c)There is never nudity for the sake of nudity (save for smut and since this isn't smut, you can assume all nudity is there for symbolic purposes).

If you find the change from past to present to past tense between scenes jarring, good. That's what I intended.

As mentioned above, I love symmetry. The chapter titles for this story all illustrate the properties of water. Perfect 7 refers to water's pH – Neutral. You might also notice that there are 7 scenes in the narrative; Raven wakes on the 7th day after her collapse; and there are 7 people identified as Raven's aids.

**Story/Comic Notes**:

This chapter was begun just after the episode "Prophecy" was aired. Considering this, Walk on Water can be considered cartoon AU at best, a complete rewrite of the entire animated Trigon arc at worst.

I don't know that Azar's death is ever detailed in the comic, nor do I know of her physical appearance and features. These are entirely my own invention for the purposes of this story and continuity with the events put forth in my Arella-centric fic/Walk on Water prequel, Dove Gray.

There is a mention that Arella does not have a spiritual send off – or "Lighting" – after her death on Azarath. This is in conflict with the first chapter of this story which has Raven attending the last night of Arella's Lighting. My explanation? Arella's Lighting was merely postponed as these things usually are in the face of extreme social complications.

Readers of the comic might remember that Raven had a nursemaid named Gayla on Azarath. I'm ignoring her.

Azar mentions Pandora's Box. As to how she knows of Pandora's Box? Though it's easily disproved, I'm entertaining the Hebrew Connection theory. Basically, in this story, the Azarathians are descendants of a faction of Ancient Jews. Since I'm calculating the time of the dimensional jump to the invasion of the Sea Peoples, the old tale of Pandora's Box would have been long circulated.

During one of Robin's off-moments, he remembers losing grip on Raven's hand as she gets sucked into Mambo's hat. Obviously, this did not happen in the show. Hence, I precede the description with "falsity".

I insinuate that Azar helped Raven construct Nevermore. This is a complete fabrication on my part.

You might be dissatisfied that many questions are posed but none are answered in this segment. All I can say is: Hang in there. I still have about 9 chapters to go.


	5. Solvent

_**Walk on Water**_

_By Kysra_

Chapter Four: Solvent

_- Azarath, present -  
_

"Madness!" It was a staid battle cry echoing against white-gray stone and empty space, cutting through the harangue of myriad voices twisting around each other.

The response, a thready utterance among the cacophony, was spoken in natural tones holding the mere threat of intimidation. "I would advise you to keep your head about you, Priest Norath."

The people circling the great elliptical slab table, so bent on their discordant operetta before, became unified in silence, twenty-one pairs of eyes finding the slight figure at the table head.

Sabe, the High Priestess, rested her hands upon the river roughened surface of the council's low table, her fingertips rubbing absently along the pock-marked stone, waiting and studying, her one good eye searching and finding each councilor in turn.

To her right, her second, Priestess Gayla, stumbled over a respectful apology, "You m-must forgive us, Honorable Sabe. What you . . . suggest has never before been done."

"Because it _has not _been done does not imply it _cannot_be done. I believe it is in our best interests, as well as that of other worlds, to allow her passage should she feel the need." Rising to her feet, Sabe stepped gingerly behind each councilor, hands steepled behind her back and head bowed, thinking even as a gnarled old man with kind almond eyes, expression marred by a discontented frown stood also as she padded ever closer to his seat.

"Absolutely not! Those who have left willingly are forbidden to return. That is the Way set down by the Founder herself. That is the Way the Council has upheld since Her Passing."

Clucking her tongue, the High Priestess allowed a self-deprecating smile, one hand coming up to touch the edge of an old scar, taunting the corner of her mouth. "The Way is conditional on this point, Priest Gwyndal. The Soul must be willing in Passage from this world to be worthy of exile. That requirement did not exist in her particular case."

"She left on her own –" another male voice, deep and magnificent boomed into the debate like thunder on a cloudless day.

"She was pressured to leave by you and yours, Priest Tor." Sabe maintained the calm cadence and leisure tone of a woman without worry. She had expected the current maelstrom of fear and doubt and had girded herself in verbal armor. "It was her decision to remain under the protection of my banner; however, she knew of your plans for banishment. Her haste in carrying out your tacit wishes is not evidence of willfulness."

But Priest Tor was not finished, and Sabe paused in her trek around the table to stare him down beneath hood and lashes. "That _child_ has brought nothing but despair since she was born!"

A small twitch of a brow was the only reaction Sabe gave before slowly lowering her hood to better meet the big man's eyes in a pointed stare. "I beg to differ." Priest Tor swallowed under the chilly, black gaze. "Like every single being who has ever lived and will live, she has brought both joy and despair. If we uphold her banishment, is it not only fair to banish every Soul that dwells here for the crimes you attribute to her?"

Priestess Seline, a slight woman of more than sixty years, shot up from her seat, a finger coming up to point at Sabe in an accusing manner. "She will fall to him as she did when last she resided here!" There were tears in the aquamarine eyes, glowing bright and ghostly in the half-light of shaded afternoon. "Arella's child was begotten by a demon, and she will inevitably return to the devil that sewed the seed from which she sprung. You, the Honorable – would you bring forth her calamity upon us all?!"

_Fear is the mind killer. _"She is as much human as she is demon. I prefer to surrender my faith in the goodness we – as her teachers – have instilled in her. Her 'calamity,' as you deem it, is not an absolute conclusion."

"Just like the Venerable Azar, you will die defending the Halfling and dooming your people to suffer under Scath's prophesied ascension." The High Magistrate, Coman, spoke, steady and powerful, from the opposite end of the slab table. His head was bowed, as if in reverence, but his electric blue eyes were aimed at her through thin lashes, direct and intense.

Sabe turned to fully face him down, knowing that, of them all, he would be her greatest source of resistance. "Death is the only future we can predict with any measure of certainty. I defend no Halfling but protect a child of Azarath."

"That_child_," he spat with palpable conviction, "is destined to bring destruction to the universe. She has already made Magistrate Juris a victim. The prophecy –"

"Is no more than an arrangement of cryptic words designed to be interpreted a variety of ways." Her hands shook against each other with the power infused in her voice, the sound echoing through the hollowed hall and out the plain cut windows. "Juris sealed his fate when he touched the girl's flesh and sought to hurl her into that endless quagmire between worlds; and you, this very council, took the liberty of playing puppet master with her life road long before any force attacked our homes." She took a deep breath to steady her tongue and scan over the chastised. "The unfounded decision to exile has affected the manner in which you regard the girl and her destiny rather than the substance of her character."

Gayla stood and this time, she did not stammer or hide her gaze. "Do you accuse us –"

Again, Sabe responded, plowing through the cantankerous verbiage of her colleagues and firmly establishing her position. Respect, protocol, etiquette – these were to be sacrificed in the face of her cause. "I do not mince words, Priestess Gayla. I believe in the inherent good – as do you, I should think. I believe you did not intentionally condemn the child out of spite or prejudice. I accuse nothing of no one . . . . However, the fact remains that she is yet connected to this place. It was where her mother bore her. It is where her mother died. It yet houses the first to shun her." Here she paused to gather herself once again, her tread lengthening, quickening as she made the round behind Coman. "Though we cannot give her aid in the coming altercation with the devil, we may give her spiritual support. _That_is all I ask of this Council."

There were several moments of deliberation as Sabe moved sedately to kneel upon the firm cushion near the table's head, hands coming to fold lightly at her lap.

Priest Tor, a youngish man with rare golden hair and sun worn skin, was the first to voice any further concerns. "The people will not lend their favor upon this overly charitable measure you propose. They will say you spout the ideals of the Venerable without due reason."

She smiled, but it was not kind. "And that I repeat the teachings and wishes of my mentor somehow causes disgrace?" The returned silence was a deafening howl, the stillness a bursting chaos. Such an atmosphere deserved the declaration burning her tongue. "If I am to be the only Soul willing to lend my voice and strength to that flown little bird so cruelly betrayed by her caretakers, . . . then maybe there is hope after all."

Magistrate Boudicca was quick to rise and reach out a yearning hand. "You believe somehow that she will cleanse us?"

Direct answers were not Sabe's way, as they did nothing but extend already worn threads of conversation. "We have hidden ourselves away too long in fear we would be corrupted by the Outside; however, our stubbornness has done more damage than any Outsider. Arella's daughter _will_call to us, and we must be prepared to answer that call." Raising her shawl to cover her head once more, the one called 'Honorable' stared ahead, allowing her voice to drop though not so low as to exclude those distant from the pull of her words. "Her time draws nearer with each breath of wind. I shall not abandon her to the darkness."

_- Titans Tower, present -_

Starfire's dreams were filled with lavender fields and red-gold, night-dark sunshine, the scene silent and entertaining incoming swirls of fog. There, the mountains below were so gray, they seemed purple, even their snowy caps were tinged a pale violet, glittering the light of a thousand naked stars.

She was alone, floating above the landscape and smiling slightly against the cold. Her heartbeat was the only sound though she could swear to deafness. Turning this way then that, she searched for someone, crying out the muted echo of a name.

As if in response, the rising lilac fog parted like wind-blown smoke to reveal another, a woman, taller than Starfire and garbed in billowing robes of a white so pure, it was almost reflective. Long strands of silvery gray hair shot with gold formed a streaming halo about her head; and though Starfire had the unsettled feeling that this woman was an elder, the face revealed was young.

_I am Azar_, it was a breath of wind, the words like the introductory notes of a well-loved song. Starfire knew this person, though she had never met the woman behind the name. And just as Raven had once attempted to explain, looking upon Azar was the gateway to paradise. She suddenly knew how she could help her friend.

_Let her know, sweet Princess. Make her see. _

Their hands met and held, their arms forming a circle, perfect and complete. _She is not alone._

Azar nodded, the layers of her robes fluttering around her. _She will never be alone. Even if she loses . . . Even if she becomes what she so fears._

The distant suns seemed to explode with light as Starfire became blind and deaf with a loud roaring in her ears; but still, there remained the whisper of Azar's voice caressing her ear as she opened her eyes to reality and tears on her pillow.

_What you feel for each other is stronger than any prophecy ever could be._

_ - WoW -  
_

In a wonderful land full of lush green palms and a variety of wild animals roaming free, there was a little hut and Beastboy shoving tofu down Cyborg's throat with gusto at a large picnic table laden down with vegan fare. And just as the youngest Titan was about to stuff his friend's face with boiled quinoa (while simultaneously working to steal the high score on their favorite video game), the table and Cyborg quite suddenly disappeared, leaving a very blonde, very pink, very confused Garfield.

"Whaaa---?" Everything was quiet, even the lions and gazelles and rhinos traipsing through the scene. Vibrant, varied color and sunlight faded into muted gray, black and white as the rest of the scene paused. And though there was only static and his own breath, Garfield felt only peace and a strange, overwhelming calm as a woman in white robes seemed to float through the tree line toward him, soft-looking hands held in a non-threatening manner folded across her abdomen.

He had the vague impression that though the wizened face and gold-shot-gray hair was unfamiliar, he knew this person and fell easily into the security of her deep slate gray eyes. Her smile, a knowing little, pink curve dipping toward a pointed chin, was a cool breeze on a hot summer's day, welcome, pleasant, and – somehow – inspiring _relief_.

One of those soft-looking hands rose to touch his pale cheek, the other grasping his hand; and though her lips never disturbed that lovely, mysterious smile, her voice reached him, whispering into his heart where it sat and generated a ball of laughing warmth.

_So you are the one that riles my little bird so. _

"Raven?" His mouth moved though no sound escaped, but the woman nodded, the enchanting smile deepening to dimple at her cheeks.

_Do not be discouraged by my ward's temper, for she has been dedicated in practicing apathy for such a long time that anger has become the only emotion she is comfortable expressing in minimal amounts. It is safer to allow misery in, she believes, if such action will barricade happiness from bursting out._

There was a niggling little echo of a memory trying to supply the name of this woman so familiar yet unnamed; but Beastboy was not known for his focus, and the niggling remained unrecognized in favor of his worry.

"What can I do?" Raven was a friend, a good friend; and though the team had gone on with their lives as if she hadn't been in a days-long coma two weeks previous, he was at least aware that whatever forces were working to take her away were not done with them yet.

Silver-gold hair glittered and shone with unearthly light as the bleached out color of his dream washed back in and sound slowly returned.

_Do as you have always done, Little Brother._

"Drive her nuts?"

The warmth in his chest spread out towards his limbs as his skin turned green again, a soft chuckle sounding close to his ear even as she faded away into a fine mist.

_Give her hope._

_ - WoW -  
_

Since "the accident," Cyborg's sleep (if you could call it that) was filled with dead landscapes of metallic dark and cold emptiness. His human consciousness simply flailed through the mental void though the memory-image of himself – young, strong, and naked as a newborn – sometimes rose up behind his sleeping eyes, glowing bright and merging with the hurtling thoughts that had replaced his dreams.

He was having such an experience now. Watching his former self, skin unmarred by wire or metal, fly far into the nothingness, a pensive frown etched on his face. The picture, the flight wasn't freeing because he knew it was nothing more than a shade of a damaged memory; and he was accustomed to feeling trapped in sleep rather than restful.

It was in these moments of night and supposed peace that he most firmly felt more machine than man; therefore, it was in these moments that he felt most vulnerable. The very act of having to recharge in the barest literal sense was enough to paint his prior life as base human and current existence in stark relief. And so he traveled within the invisible barriers of an engineered vault produced by the computerized, battery operated portion of his mind, helpless as the still-human part slowly blurred over the details of his former human appearance little by little.

Once, a long time ago just after being released from the power of Raven's mirror and the events that transpired there, he had wondered if Raven felt something similar about the influence of her father. It was a thought he had revisited with more frequency since her birthday and the drama immediately following.

_Do not be afraid of her._

The voice was soft and distinctly female, sweet yet firm – the voice of a teacher and experienced orator. There had never been other bodies in his mindscape, not the memory-forms of his teammates, family, other friends, or celebrities after his body had been . . . altered. It had always thus been himself or nothing at all. So, when a shape began to materialize out of the pitch surroundings, he reacted defensively.

"Who's there?"

_Do not be afraid for her._

The hazy, indistinct shape seemed light, airy, and increasingly bright. Had this not been a dream, he would have had to shield his eyes as the rays reached and surrounded him in a sort of beaming net.

"I'm not afraid, not of her, not for her. What the hell could a figment of my imagination know, anyway?"

He suddenly felt a strange warmth at his back as the tendrils of light solidified into delicately tapered fingers clasped at his chest flowing into thin and fragile arms that draped over his shoulders. A soft cheek pressed against his temple as long silvery hair with a ghostly hint of blonde tickled his bare arm.

The woman was blocked from his mind-view, but he somehow knew she was sad and frowning.

_Oh, but you are, Friend, you are so terrified that admittance seems impossible._

Pain, it slithered under his imaginary skin like an army of leeches; but he recognized that the pain did not belong to him. It was too old and deep and felt strongly of regret. Victor found her hands with his and leaned into her and registered an emotion that – for so long – had seemed far away beyond his reach: _security_.

"Who are you?" His voice was muted but full and warm.

The woman moved, one hand still holding on to his as she circled to face him, and if the intensity of her expression had not grabbed his undivided attention, the gravity in her words certainly would have.

_Be mindful, Friend. Your fear will freeze your intent and halt your steps for how can one move forward when busy searching for threats following behind? _

She smiled then, an encouraging little promise of something intangible and worth fighting for.

_My little bird has not the strength to sustain herself any longer. You know this. Find strength to support her. Assure her of your faith when her confidence falters. Give up your courage, and hold her when she falls. _

_There is no one and nothing to fear, no one and nothing to fear for. Look forward, Dearest Brother, for she can only overcome if you are wholly on her side._

Her hands felt warm as they wiped his tears and framed his face, and when he woke for the day, he was left with the impression of owl gray eyes piercing into his very soul.

- WoW -

Unlike the majority of his teammates, Robin could not find the will to sleep. Had he allowed himself to fall into slumber, he would have been welcomed by an unending field of golden wheat beneath an equally fathomless blue sky. There would have been people in brightly colored, hodge-podge costumes and rustic crimson, green, and striped tents, laughter and cotton candy in the air.

He would have seen his parents and touched them as they ruffled his hair and tugged his ears for luck; and at the height of the show, when the audience was giving their standing ovation and he was climbing the long ladder to the highest point beneath the Big Top, there would have appeared a woman of unearthly poise and a face that promised the utmost tenderness and love.

She would have told him to beware of empty promises and the shadows that lurk in the corners of the mind; to teach of things he knows and unlearn all conjecture; to be friend without losing sight of deeper emotion; and to live by example, without regret or hatred.

_Always, there exists alternatives._

But he couldn't sleep, even with Raven alive and recovering two weeks after her awakening. Convinced that Slade had been too quiet, he had been working nearly seven days straight without rest, looking for Ground Zero, theorizing the logistics, agency, and possible tactics the psychopath would inevitably use against them.

And he knew he would have to stop soon. His back and heart burned with exhaustion, but more alarming were the new whisperings in his head.

Restless and agitated, he threw down a compass he had been using on the large city map spread upon the conference room table and left his work without a backward glance. His hands fidgeted, bare for once, as he had donned night clothes to assuage Cyborg's growing concerns that - despite being assured time and again - Robin wasn't getting enough rest.

At first, he thought to rummage through the kitchen to find something to promote a few more hours of artificial wakefulness; however, he knew his body, knew his mind and how much strain he could take. It was becoming obvious that he would need to at least _attempt_ some form of temporary relaxation.

That was before he found himself passing Raven's door for the umptieth time that night and decided to put his mind at ease by doing something he had never been desperate enough to even contemplate. Using the override, he intruded into her bedroom without hesitation.

The window had been repaired and the bed had been replaced. Her carpet was clear of blood stains, but he could easily remember exactly where they had settled. It was strange, the way he usually thought of her color scheme as absorbing all light and now, as he stepped further into the large space, his eyes followed the way the moonlight illuminated the small lump of her feet beneath the covers and danced across the floor to illuminate a makeshift night table where her bewitched hand mirror lay.

"Not . . . again." The whisper was outside himself this time, and he rushed the last few steps to Raven's bedside. Her face - what he could make of it in the darkness - was scrunched up and a flash of white teeth worried her bottom lip. "_Please_. . . " The entreaty was a warble, half whimper - half squeak, and he lowered himself to his knees and wondered what he should do.

"Raven?" He spoke quietly, softly, the anxiety palpable in his tone as his hand reached to touch her face.

"'m so sorry . . . " It was the tears in her voice that turned his head toward the table and mirror. It was the tears that suddenly shone on her cheeks that spurred him to touch the silver of the mirror's face.

And it was only moments later that with a flash and without a sound, Robin disappeared.

- WoW -

She was trapped in the apocalypse again, sitting near the Robin-statue and staring up unseeing to the vermillion sky mentally begging for someone or something to wake her up and return her to a world where her friends still lived and breathed.

Biting her lips and trying not to cry despite the impulse to just give in and resign herself to this future, this path, Raven turned to gaze up at Robin's profile, the way his chin never fell but remained stubbornly raised and set . . . demanding. Not minding the sand, her hands splayed and rose to find his stony palm, wrapping around his desperate fingers and holding on for dear life.

"I can't do this." Her nose burned as she kneeled up and pressed her face to his arm and the alien claws grasping for him. "Not . . . again." Her entire body was shaking, and she suddenly felt nauseous and more pointedly alone than ever.

Somehow, she knew Azar would not be coming to comfort her this time; and that made the scene frighteningly real. _Had it all happened? Was everything before - this morning and afternoon with the Titans - was that the dream?_

"_Please . . . _" It just . . . It just _couldn't_be real.

_Raven?_

But the tears began to fall as she gasped for breath and began to sob so strongly, her body rocked with it. "'m so sorry." Her hands fell from the cold statue to strike hard against the ground, her back rounding into her shoulders as her palms curled and fingers buried harshly into the sand. Her eyes shut violently against the scene as she cried in mourning for what she wasn't strong enough to undo, wasn't smart enough to prevent.

"Raven?" She had heard voices other than her own in this hell before, haunting and taunting until she _wanted_ to destroy everything in order to reclaim some semblance of peace.

A touch. An embrace. She gasped to see Robin's face before her, alive and unmasked – warm flesh no longer cold stone. "R-Robin?" Her voice broken, but the pure relief superseded any embarrassment she may have entertained. His hold on her turned tight, and she returned it just as hard. She couldn't seem to get enough air, chest heaving with the memory of heart break and the new liberation of _hope_.

She didn't ask how he had found his way to her as there was only one way in without her own initiation; instead, she resolved to be grateful he had come.

"This . . . This is what you're afraid of, isn't it?" His eyes had only needed a cursory glance to take in the horror of Jump's possible future to finally understand the deep scarring Slade's 'message' had carved within Raven.

Her face pressed into his shoulder, he felt her nod shakily. "This is the future my father wishes to create through me. This is the destiny the priests of Azarath saw and tried to destroy by destroying me."

Something in his gut tightened with something resembling rage. "Destroy you?"

"I was barely birthed when one priest who had opposed my being from the first opened a portal to throw me into Limbo."

"What happened?"

"Something .. . backfired and the priest imploded – ceased to exist."

A long silence fell between them as she composed herself and began to relax in his arms and he contemplated the petrified version of himself, of his friends and the wreckage of their surroundings. Eventually, she drew away, nervously tugging the rags of her leotard for better coverage before bringing quivering hands to her face, sloppily wiping away the tears.

They were close, knees touching and eyes holding. It was rare that she saw him without the mask, rarer still when he bared himself freely; and she was always keenly aware that she was the only Titan to know him this way.

Finally, he spoke again, and his words were the very definition of unexpected. "It wasn't your fault, Raven."

Eyes wide, her fingers tangled in the long strands of her hair, restless and vulnerable. "Robin?"

Robin's bare arm swept to the side, indicating the whole of the apocalyptic landscape grafted in her mind. "Even if this does come to pass, this won't be your fault either."

Frowning, she struggled to stand, refusing his offered help and brushing at her knees with frustrated, sharp motions. "We don't know that yet. . . . Azar said there are always three possibilities, three choices. She warned that I am still traveling an unsafe path."

"Then make a different choice."

"I—"_I have not made a choice yet_, she thought briefly before studying his sure expression, the piercing focus of his gaze. She understood then that she had made a choice when the priests had made their choice. She had believed all this time that their word, their belief in her human weakness and the strength of her father's influence would doom her to become the instrument of the greatest betrayal, would prove more truthful than Azar's teachings to the contrary.

And she had been conducting herself as if the betrayal had already begun.

"Raven." Robin's voice was soft and near as he rose to standing and all she wanted was to lay her head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat. "You told me once that you were dangerous, and I gladly took the risk of having you on the team. I've never regretted that decision. Now, I'm asking you – as a friend, not a leader – take a risk on me."

Staring, barely able to believe in the faith glowing from his face, she whispered, "Even if it . . . means the world?"

He grinned and cupped her face between his hands, leaning forward until their foreheads touched. "Just makes the fight worthwhile."

Raven began to smile her strange barely-there smile that never fully reached her eyes when the expression dropped back to her usual neutral expression. "I . . . I can't do this alone." It was the first time she had uttered such an admittance even though the words had always been locked inside the fear.

He sighed, pulling her in again and tried not to be surprised when she returned his embrace for a second time. Their bond, strong as it had been and weakened as it had become in those days when she was hiding herself away, had grown incomprehensibly powerful since her awakening and the confession of her history. Each word, inflection, and expression had been tucked into his conscious, analyzed, and filed into his memory; but mere words could not begin to describe the scene around them nor the damage her past had left in its wake. And he had made a silent promise to her the night they first met and the night she woke to communicate her story. "I think . . . you never had to."

He smoothed her hair as they shared a meaningful glance before her head found his shoulder and the simply stood soaking in the mutual affection. The burning red symbols stroking across her limbs and brow hissed as they dissipated from her skin as the destruction of Jump City faded to black, a strange maze of floating rocks and fragmented pathways materializing around them. But before he could ask about the new décor, he was struck by the sight of rain that suddenly fell in sheets yet were not tangible enough to wet them or anything else. Even the one-eyed crows staring him down were unaffected by the downpour.

"Does it always rain in your mind?"

"Only when I want to cry."

His expression was so tender then, understanding that of all the things she had told him over the last few weeks, that one tiny admission was the most intimate.

They stood within the confines of Raven's mindscape for several moments more before Raven felt safe enough to grant Robin an exit, and it was only after she psychically verified he had made the return with no complications that she allowed herself to come awake.

- WoW -

Robin left her room before she could find him there, not because of fear that she would be indignant or accusing of his unsanctioned entrance into her quarters but because he knew she would need privacy in the aftermath. Raven did not give secrets away lightly, and she almost always required time to internalize the loss soon afterward.

Still unable or unwilling – he had accepted defeat in categorizing the source of his insomnia – to sleep, Robin had found some measure of stillness upon the roof, overlooking the city he had been watching over for the last few years and had just "seen" reduced to rubble.

The sun was coming up, a bare sliver of pure light just peaking over the horizon and painting the water a molten, shimmering gold. Briefly, he wondered just how many more dawns existed for them; and all he could see was lava red, all he could smell was the putrid scent of sulfur and brimstone.

He wondered if the vision often merged with reality for Raven, if Slade's message had managed to twine itself so tightly in her psyche that the image had superimposed itself on the world even in waking. It was a humbling possibility.

"You got your wish."

He had known the second she left her room and wasn't startled, didn't move. It was rather disconcerting this _knowing_ when Raven was near, but he hid the vague fluttery feeling with a smile and a small bow of the head. He didn't turn to her, and she didn't look at him as she took up position at his side, standing close to the flimsy looking guard rail. "My wish?"

"You wanted me to let you inside my mind."

"You didn't let me in. I barged in." At any other time, if she wasn't so close to some unearthly precipice of insanity, he would have apologized. As it was, he couldn't be sorry, not when he was just beginning to understand; and without the experience he had been privy to just hours ago, it would be impossible to glean that vital understanding.

She shifted and his eyes were drawn to her. He grinned when he noted the uncharacteristic white night gown that seemed to float and swirl about her legs like smoke, the thin straps baring her usually clothed neck and arms. It took a moment for him to recall that the garment had been a gift from Bumble Bee, . . . and in that moment, he realized just how pretty she was, how soft. In the light of day and the dark of battle, she was always so poised and strong. He suddenly felt touched that she would gift him with such open unapologetic vulnerability.

Somewhat heart-heavy, Robin turned back to the city and the sunrise, wondering at the silence between them as the wind lightly whipped at their clothes and hair. There were questions in the masked quiet, rolling in and out with the distant waves, singing in the breeze.

"What was it like?" He finally spoke, voice low and barely audible between them. "Azarath?"

Raven shifted again, running tired fingers through her ruffled hair. "Quiet."

In the years of their acquaintance and friendship, both Robin and Cyborg had become experts in discerning Raven's penchant for double-talk – not only identifying when she was reverting to hiding behind her words but learning to decode the actual meaning within the cloaking verbiage. And though she was more apt to plain speaking recently, there were still times Robin felt trapped and frustrated by her need to protect herself even from him.

Feeling tired of being sick with worry, he responded directly, "How lonely?"

She paused, slightly startled then looked up at him. "Very."

He thought about that, about when he first met her, the impression she had stamped upon his memory . . . how much he still didn't know. Secrets . . . they both had hoarded their just shares then, yet time and the Bond had eradicated many of the barriers between them.

And still he had questions – about her, the father she so feared, and the life she had lead before the Titans.

Nodding to himself, he absently tucked stray strands behind her ear, gentling them away from her eyes and mouth. "I've always wondered, what do your words mean?"

She blinked, as much from the question as the unexpected gesture. "Words?"

"Azarath. Metrion. Zenthos."

They were facing each other now, though Raven's grasped onto the metal rail as if she needed something solid to keep her steady. "To be honest, I invoke them so frequently, a part of me has forgotten their meaning, but . . . "

Turning to more directly face him, her free hand came up to trace an invisible circle just above his heart where the 'R' badge usually lay. He should have been surprised, shocked. They had never been unnecessarily physical with each other – a symptom of their mutual respect. However, he was attuned to her words and knew the actions were a choreographed lesson. She would teach as she had been taught.

"Azarath, the dimension those with troubled hearts call home. It is a sanctuary for those lost and in need of rest, a place to learn peace."

Delicate, tapered fingers pressed against his chest briefly as he watched her eyes, the intensity of the violet iris, the inscrutable look in them. Her palm fell flat then moved up to cup his shoulder, glide along the side of his neck until she reached his chin. Cold fingertips fanned out to run across his lips, her eyes finding and catching his. Something warm, almost hot, crackled beneath his skin. "Metrion is the essence of all life, that which gives animation, the soul and pure spirit. It is necessary and sacred as breath."

Finally, her other hand let go of the rail to join the other, framing his face then smoothing his forehead. "And Zenthos, a derivation of your Zen – peace, serenity, fulfillment. It is what we strive to attain: full mastery over our senses and selves in order to achieve true bliss."

Eyes never leaving his, Raven's hands returned to her sides as she concluded the lesson. "Sanctuary. Spirit. Serenity. Azarath. Metrion. Zenthos."

He smiled at her, repressing the urge to hug her in reality as he had in her dreams. "They aren't magic, then?"

She snorted, "Not in the sense you are talking about, no."

With a smile still touching his lips and knowing they would have to don their uniforms soon, Robin couldn't help but wish there were more moments like this one – quiet, solitary moments filled with illuminating conversation. "I want to know you."

Raven looked away quickly, bringing her attention back to the surf and the waking city. Robin was not the only one versed in double-talk. "I am . . . grateful for any help you can provide." She swallowed. "But you can't save me, Robin. Not this time."

_This time, it is up to me to save myself._

Closing his eyes against the growing brightness of the morning sun, Robin closed the gap between them, treading his fingers through hers, ignoring her startled gasp. "Maybe, but I'll damn well try."

_To be continued . . . _

**Author's Note** In our NEXT installment, we're going to give Raven and the Titans a bit of a break and focus on the other protagonist battle front - Arella and Batman.

**Story/Comic Notes**

There are four people of Azarath that were featured (however, briefly) in the comic that are also featured here: Azar (who should need no explanation at this point); Gayla who - in the comic - was Raven's nursemaid but who - in this story - has been promoted to a step down from the High Priestess; Coman, the High Magistrate in both the comic and this story (but Sabe trumps him, hence why she sits at the head and he sits to her right); and Juris who was a magistrate (in the comic - a priest in this story) present at Raven's birth and summarily destroyed himself trying to destroy infant!Raven in the comic.

In Beast Boy's dream, he's turned human for a few short moments - he's pale and blonde. I'm using his appearance from one of the graphic novels in which he was briefly cured of the virus that makes him Beast Boy.

The explanation of "Azarath, Metrion, Zenthos" has been sitting on my hard drive almost as long as the first chapter. It is a complete fabrication. And yes, I know "Zenthos" should be spelled "Zinthos" but it didn't work with what I had planned. Please forgive that bit of artistic license.


	6. Interlude I: Adhesion

_**Walk on Water**_

_**Interlude I:**_

_Adhesion_

by Kysra

Arella knew she wouldn't get far, nude as she was. Death had eradicated any measure of modesty she had exhibited while alive; however, she knew the world she had been born into, and time was running too fast and too short to risk being picked up and locked up for indecent exposure. (Nevermind that she looked as if she had suffered a severely botched gender-changing operation. She still had breasts and buttocks, and that was enough to land her behind bars).

Though she couldn't smell, feel, or appreciate it in her current state, she huffed a frustrated breath that fluffed her bangs as her eyes darted about, studying the little house in the middle of nowhere she had come across as she edged along the woodsy border. The trek from cave to outside world had been long and arduous; but her spirit guide – unsurprisingly in the form of a dove – had been more than adept at leading the way.

It had taken well over a day for her to reach civilization, and though she was exhausted (rebirth into a death ridden body composed of sacrificed birds would do that), the woman-formerly-known-as-Angella-Roth pushed onward, carefully planning what she could do to help her child while figuring on how best to go about accomplishing those tasks.

Unfortunately, clothing had become something of a necessity as she poised to enter arenas of human interaction; and having no money or other prospects, Arella resigned herself to the realization that – barring a miraculous encounter with some over-charitable entity – she would be forced to steal.

Forgive me, Father, for I will sin . . .

The house was a humble brick affair with a sliding glass door opening toward the expansive back yard. There was a swing set, rusted with age and disuse, perched midway between the house and herself; and there seemed no sign that anyone was currently home.

Sighing, she looked to the dove balanced on the top of her hand. "What do you think? There's a clothes line just there . . . " At least she wouldn't have to break an entering. The bird cooed before nuzzling at her knuckles and taking off toward the strung up articles.

She soon followed, stepping gingerly to keep from tripping over her feet or anything else. Deprived of human senses, she couldn't feel depth, cold, hot, or sensation – just the pressure of something touching her skin. Also, she was technically blind, though her soul could 'see' the life force of surrounding organic matter and detect dark matter . . . or non-organic matter. Given those conditions, it was difficult to move among the world without fumbling violently.

Relying on her tiny messenger and guide, Arella found the line and hastily donned ill-fitting underwear, shirt, and trousers. She would leave off the socks – there were no shoes on the line or near it – as she didn't know how they would interfere with her already handicapped senses.

Confident she had not been spied, she took a quick glance around to better estimate her position then set off purposefully to the North.

Trigon had enticed Slade to resurrect her for no other reason than to grant them a door into Raven's heart; but neither had taken into account that Arella was no longer subject anyone's whimsy – demon-god or otherwise – and had her own agenda.

They had expected her to seek out and lead them to their target, but she would instead look for aid. They had wanted her to take an Easterly route, yet she had turned North. They had planned on Arella marching on to Jump City; however, her chosen destination was a place more familiar.

She would go to Gotham City, and there find a Knight to her Queen.

- WoW -

_Gotham City, three days later_

The sun was high and the wind tugged and pulled at her loose hair as she ran along sidewalks that had seen better days. She was in the old neighborhood, a complex of apartment buildings, vendor carts, trinket shops, and dark alleys better avoided.

Arella had entered the city two days previous and begun her search for the elusive Batman, immediately burying herself in the library, rifling and scanning through microfilm and more recent newspaper articles to learn of the events she had missed and track the movements of the Batman to better understand how he always ended up in the right place at the right time.

Completing that (apparently, heightened spiritual awareness held more gifts than she had previously estimated), she had taken to the streets, sticking close to her former haunts and bedding places discovered while a homeless teen and carefully remaining as distant as possibly from her parents' house.

Unfortunately, the patch of road near St.Christopher's Cathedral where she was once attacked and saved by an angel in black no longer existed, demolished with the church in favor of some urban development scheme. The other places – warehouses, underground safe houses, and even the Church of Trigon were either no longer inhabited or no longer _there_.

The seventeen years that had passed since her life and death in Azarath suddenly weighed heavily upon her heart as she wondered after the people who had inhabited those places. Where were they? What were they doing? Were they still alive?

Shaking her head to clear those distracting thoughts, she dodged an elderly couple pushing a junk-filled supermarket cart and passed her former high school which had become a mess of graffiti and loitering kids, trash dusting the small grass bare lawn fronting the façade. It made her sad, slowed her tireless gait. Her happiest memories had been born in this place, and now it was a mere shadow of its former self.

People flashed before and around her like speeding ghosts, mere impressions of flying emotions and dark secrets. She wondered if this was what it had been like for Raven every moment of her life and suddenly had a new appreciation for the raw strength her daughter possessed. To at once feel and block these intense, powerful feelings from every stranger, every friend and somehow retain sanity . . . Such an amazing girl, her Raven.

Smiling wryly, Arella slowed to a near-jog (making the extra effort to pant tiredly to keep the intelligent observer from suspecting something amiss) as she reached the city center, running her hand along the side of a concrete building, senses whirling in search of _something_.

Her pale, little gray friend, swooped down from seemingly nowhere to alight on her shoulder, fluttering his wings and showering her head with feathers. "I could use some help right about now. Every second lost was a step closer to the end of this world." _Dear Lord, a little divine intervention would be greatly appreciated right about now. Just a sign, any sign that I'm getting closer . . . _

As she approached Main Street, three city blocks from the true city center – Wayne Enterprises Corporate Tower - she noted a passing limo, a large entourage of police that surrounded it, and an equally large line of assorted media vehicles racing to keep up. A _sign_._Thank you, God._

They were traveling toward Wayne Tower, and she would be there to meet whatever clue awaited her there.

- WoW -

Through no fault of her own, nearly five hours had lapsed before Arella stood before the stately grand entrance of Wayne Enterprises; and even then she was on the wrong side of the street.

She forced a sigh, absently petting the equally upset bird on her shoulder. The world had not changed all that much from when she was young and alive. The misguided still roamed with guns in their pockets and money-lust in their hearts as those filled with grace followed behind to clear the mess and council the victimized.

A man had been gunned down in full daylight seconds before she reached the second intersection of an estimated ten. The 'Walk" signal had appeared and suddenly a great shot rang out above the sounds of the busy boulevard and a thousand voices. A scream broke and an area was cleared as cell phones were pressed to ringing ears by trembling hands.

And though she had been tempted to walk away and keep along her business as other inevitably did, her spirit guide butted his head against her cheek as if to reprimand. When she had been alone on the streets, she could have easily been in such a position – shot and quivering with the last moments of life, wishing only for comfort that would not come.

Overcome with sympathy and slightly frustrated by the confused cries of the fearful bystanders, Arella descended on the wounded man, patting his hand and smoothing his thin hair while softly singing the only lullaby she knew. He wasn't fully dead when he hit the ground; but it had only taken a few moments for his heart to stop. With his last breath, he squeezed her hand and closed his eyes, looking for all the world asleep and at peace. She had smiled then, as a pidgeon – stout and peckish – approached through the throng to bite at the man's tie then fly away, disappearing into the graying sky line.

The man's passage soon freed her senses to become attuned to the surrounding space. The killer had not gotten far. She 'saw' him calmly walking, merging with the crowd; and as the police and paramedics descended onto the scene, she shouldered in to describe and name the murderer to the police.

Soon enough, she was pushed aside to make room so that the authorities could perform a cursory investigation and the paramedics could bag and prepare the body for transport to the morgue. Standing aside, watching the last of the scene, Arella said a final good-bye and a heartfelt blessing, seeing in the dead man, a little of herself, then left the area altogether.

She had nary taken ten steps when she realized the side of her leg was drenched in blood., and though her purpose did not include impressing others, Arella understood that social niceties had to be observed, otherwise more time would be wasted. She didn't have the luxury.

So, instead of heading straight for Wayne Tower after the initial setback of random homicide, she used money from the dead man's wallet to first rent a beggar woman's spare rags then buy a new(er) outfit from a nearby Goodwill outlet. There she found a little dress that had seen better days, faded as it was, but it was such a lovely near-violet – so similar to Raven's eyes – that Arella couldn't resist. It fit reasonably well, though the straps kept falling over her arms, and the skirt was so full and light that she felt a bubbling sense of something resembling _youth_ despite her situation and recent brush with death.

Exiting the store wearing her purchase, she was careful to take a few detours in order to chuck the stolen clothes and rags in a lost trash bin that had not been emptied for several weeks from the look of it; and though her feet were still bare and a small amount of absorbed blood still clung to her exposed leg, she felt a little more grounded.

When she finally did arrive in front of Wayne Tower's main entrance, she couldn't stop herself from blinking helplessly at the hubbub erupting as the polished revolving glass doors suddenly exploded with the force of an exiting camera crew before the mogul himself, Bruce Wayne stepped out of the building looking unaffected and steady in the midst of the booming chaos.

However, what held Arella enthralled and still was not the churning crowd or growing traffic jam separating her from the building and the drama, but the swirling colors of Mr. Wayne's aura and the dark edges that pushed inward to his core.

She smiled and touched fingertips to lips, suppressing the desire to laugh in delight. She had found him, the Dark Knight.

- WoW -

Bruce was not a happy man, and the broken ribs currently groaning in protest as he shouldered his way through the throng of reporters, police, and paparazzi were not making things better.

"Mr. Wayne, can you comment –"

"Mr. Wayne, how do you respond –"

"What do you have to say --!"

"Were you aware –"

"Is the rumor true that –"

Issuing random 'no comments' never worked in these situations, so he didn't waste his breath with any sort of non-reply. Instead, he let his silence speak for him. After all, none of their questions were new or relevant. He was – socially and civically – first and foremost a businessman. It was no one's legitimate concern about who he was seeing, when he was getting married, or what his sexual orientation was.

Suppressing the reflex to outright _glower_ at the media personnel and gawking passersby, he pasted on a pleasant smile and descended the short stairs to his waiting limousine, and as he was about to step down into the stretched vehicle, the gut feeling that usually saved his ass during his nightly duties, alerted that someone was watching his movements a little _too_ intently for comfort.

Poised to duck into the back seat, he allowed his eyes to quickly scan the perimeter and when his once over became a twice over, he just . . . stopped. The world seemed to slow as his eyes widened in impossible recognition. Thunder rolled ominously. Fat drops of rain began to fall.

As people-shaped blurs raced for cover, he remained, still and silent and staring, unmindful of the milling reporters and the hush that fell behind him as onlookers tried to see what he was so focused on. There, a woman stood across the the six lane street, her eyes locked on his and her mouth drawn up into a smile. She seemed unaffected by the water as it slashed at the skirt of her faded blue dress and washed through her hair down her shoulders.

She was petite, small, curvaceous, and brunette, hauntingly familiar though the photograph that held his first glimpse of her featured a teenager not the seasoned woman before him.

_Angela Roth. _

He wondered at the look of her – pale and almost breathless, _waiting_, though he couldn't fathom what she would be waiting for.

Here, in the day, in the rain, in this Armani suit, he was Bruce Wayne. He had nothing to do with her nor she with him.

. . . However, if she _was_ Raven's mother, then . . .

She would be **dead.**

His jaw tightened and – silencing his driver's protest – he closed the car door and made his way across sea of stalled vehicles and rushing people, to confront her. The media would no doubt take photos and tomorrow would inevitably make her out to be some sort of sordid affair; but strange things had been going on in Jump City and if this woman was who he believed she was, he may be on the cusp of discovering some useful information. _That_ possibility trumped any instinct in preserving himself from becoming tabloid fodder . . . _again._

Her dark hair was matted and soaked by the time he reached her, and he was no less drenched himself. Lightning cracked and struck Wayne Tower, but he didn't notice nor did he particularly care. The woman's smile never wavered but, stranger still, neither did her honey-gold gaze.

"Who are you?" Bruce had to restrain himself from grabbing her arm or shoulders.

She sighed, the breath looking forceful and overly dramatic, as her hand came up to pet the distressed looking dove on her shoulder. "Mr. Wayne. I must say, this is rather unexpected. Of course, I never really thought about the man behind the suit until I saw you just now."

There was something about her tone when she said it, and this time, he did grab her wrist with unnecessary strength, jerking her close. "Who. Are. You." The growl was a shade away from the Batman's voice, his sneer taking it further.

But she did not seem panicked or afraid. Rather, the woman was the very picture of calm with her beguiling rain flooded eyes looking out from a too-pale face. Her skin was frigid beneath his palm, his mind working around the revelations that there was no pulse evident pumping above her thumb and that her pupils remain fixed, not dilating. "I think you know who I am, and people are beginning to stare Mr. Wayne. Perhaps we should talk away from prying eyes?"

Letting her go and remembering himself, Bruce touched the side of her jaw, tilting her face up to his more completely. "Who are you?" This time the inquiry was low, soft, almost seductive; but instead of melting or responding with the same heat, the woman gentled his hand from her face and surprised him with the serious tilt of her mouth, the odd vacant strength of her stare. "Will wonders never cease . . . " She cupped his face between her hands and tilted her head just so, like a little child trying to understand a difficult puzzle. "The mask only hides your face."

- WoW -

She was watching that bird again. This after she had demanded the car slow down so that her pet dove could more easily follow once Bruce had put his foot down that he would not tolerate animals in his limo.

And just as she watched the tiny speck of near-white against the violent dark gray of the storm they had left behind, he watched her out the corner of his eye as the car made its way up the lonely drive to Wayne Manor. "Dead?"

The smile she threw at him was just this side of cutting. "As a door knell."

Bruce resisted the urge to smile back. There was something about her unassuming dry wit that amused him. "How long?"

Angela Roth – no,_Arella_ – looked as if she would be bouncing in her seat had she not been restrained (strangely, she had been insistent on wearing a seat belt). "About four years now . . ." A pause and then, "You believe me? Just like that?"

"I've seen stranger things." And he had. He wondered briefly if it were even possible to surprise him anymore. It was a sobering thought that maybe it wasn't. "I'm more concerned over your identity and what you're doing here."

Again, that crisp, almost blade-sharp grin, "I understand that it's a lot to take in, and I applaud your courage in facing my story head-on. As for my agenda, I'm here to help my daughter, Raven."

"Then what are you doing here with me?" Honestly, now he had ghosts coming to him for advice. When did he become a master of cosmic problem solving?

Arella's smile faltered as if she had sensed his uncharitable thoughts, "I apologize. I never meant to burden you; but I can't do this alone, and you were the first person I thought of to ask for help." It was incessantly odd how her brown eyes – while lackluster and empty – could communicate such a calculating look. "Well, the Batman was the first person I thought of." She took a deep breath that she didn't actually need, and Bruce reflected that he couldn't really blame her for using such a normal physical process as a mechanism of comfort. "I'm not sure if Trigon and Slade are able to trace me through this . . . body they trapped me in, and I don't intend to risk Raven's future unnecessarily. Therefore, I need an agent to communicate with my daughter on my behalf."

"Brave of you." He left the interpretation of his curt comment up to her. As it was, he wasn't entirely sure if he thought her brave for actively seeking him out or a fool for getting mixed up in such a complex web of evil and deceit to begin with.

She snorted, and this time, he couldn't help a crooked half-smile. "Desperate would be more accurate. Trigon inspires it."

Bruce wasn't accustomed to this sort of candor; but he appreciated it just the same, particularly since Arella seemed determined to be honest, open and remarkably lacking in sentimentality. "Tell me about him."

Her hand flew up to her throat as she shifted to stare straight ahead. They were almost to the main house now, and he somehow read in the lines of her face, that she would not speak of this again. Whatever thoughts were whirling in her head, whatever came out of her mouth would remain here between them and the backseat carriage.

"I can't repeat the story now . . . It's too long, but maybe –"

"Just the important things."

Her eyes returned to him and her mouth was slack. He had the vague impression that she was disgusted with him. "I think you'll find in time, Mr. Wayne, that it is **all**_important_."

There was _definitely_ fire in this woman for all her sweet words and impeccable manners, and Bruce found himself slightly upset by the question of how such a person could become tangled with a devil. "Very well, then. What can you tell me that will convince me to help you?"

"You've met Raven, I presume?"

"Many times."

"What was your first impression of her?"

He didn't quite understand her line of questioning, but resolved to give her the benefit of a doubt. "Vulnerable, innocent but strong. Unfortunately, there was a psychic present at Raven's entrance and introduction who did not share my opinion. She warned that there was evil in Raven. That declaration prevented anyone – including myself – from helping Raven when she asked for it."

Arella's unblinking eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. "The psychic was right."

Bruce hadn't quite expected _that_. "I must have misunderstood something. You want me to help you help Raven, but you're telling me that Zatana and the Justice League were correct to shun her?"

"I never said I agreed with the end result. You must understand, Trigon – at the moment – doesn't have a corporeal body on this plane; and unfortunately, he wants to subjugate Earth and humanity. The path of least resistance to his goal was to plant his seed here then use the child that sprung from that seed as a doorway to enter. The Azarathians took us away to prevent it from happening; but . . . the jury is still out on whether it was wrong of Raven to return . . . . You see, she does not only hold the power of her father, her body _contains_ his very soul."

Exasperated, Bruce stared at her. "Then how do you suggest I deal with her, exactly?" He was certain Robin would not take kindly to his encroaching on Titans territory let alone the prospect of Raven as a target from friendly fire; but he would do it if such action became their only option.

"My daughter has been told from infancy that she would break under her father's will and bring about the end of all she holds dear. I used to believe that too. I cursed her and even tried to kill her by killing myself before she was born. I've had a lot of time to watch and listen since then; and now I know we were all mistaken."

Losing patience, Bruce frowned deeply. "Mistaken? Is she a threat or isn't she?"

This time, Arella's smile was small and sad, her lashes dipping down over her eyes. "She is the only being that can match his strength. It is up to her friends and you to convince her to use that power. She doesn't have enough confidence yet to realize it herself."

It had been years, but Bruce remembered Raven's face and manner vividly. "No . . . no she doesn't."

"Please. Help me save my girl." She wasn't looking at him but at her hands, folded neatly in her lap and grasping each other tightly.

His expression turned tender, knowing he couldn't, _wouldn't_ refuse. "You'll need somewhere to stay. May I offer one of my spare rooms?"

She didn't move until he had exited the car and opened the door for her. By then she had freed herself from the seatbelt and as she rose out from the vehicle, her arms fit themselves around his neck in a soft embrace. "Thank you," she breathed.

It wasn't until after he greeted Alfred and introduced their guest that Bruce realized something that both shocked and mystified him: She had been warm.

- WoW -

It took all of five minutes for Alfred to become completely '_charmed_' by Arella's good manners, and within ten minutes of their introductions, the two had become ripe bosom buddies. It was singularly disconcerting and not a little offensive to Bruce's pride as a man in his prime.

"Ah, good morning, Mr. Wayne." She was all smiles as she set a plate stacked with hot cakes drizzled in syrup before him. He had tried to explain to her that he usually partook of a small breakfast – usually a cold protein drink or nothing at all, but she had given him a manipulative pout and fed him a line about how she had missed out on doing these normal, everyday things for years when she was still alive and would he please have the heart to humor her?

And to be fair, he had not eaten so well in a long time (not for lack of effort on Alfred's part).

A tall glass of milk and a cup of coffee (black with a pinch of sugar – just how he liked it) soon joined the hot cakes before Arella sat opposite him, a cup of steaming tea sitting between her hands. At first, he had been puzzled as to why she even bothered with the brewing and the setting of tea; but he was beginning to understand that Arella was determined to preserve what little human sense she had left to her. She may not be able to taste, drink, or digest, but she could feel warmth and pretend to appreciate the smell.

"Did you rest well?" His grin was a mere hint of the amusement coloring his voice as her expression turned just this side of affronted. After all, the idea that a spirit, no matter how trapped, would need rest was at least somewhat ludicrous. That said trapped spirit had all but abandoned her own bed in favor of bunking in _his_ the three nights she had been staying in his home was becoming a great source of free entertainment.

'Very." She replied, nonplussed, before meeting his eyes in a pointed but vaguely immature off-the-cuff staring contest. "You can't bait me with that sort of innuendo." He grinned more fully this time, enjoying the way she answered with a secret grin of her own.

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." He took a large bite of the pancakes and immediately relished the taste. "It's a shame you can't enjoy this."

Arella tugged on her hair with one hand, absently feeding the dove perched on her shoulder with the other. "No one is more aware of that than me, Mr. Wayne; but if you don't mind, grant me the small mercy of watching you enjoy it."

His grin faded though hers did not. It had been three days, and he still didn't' know . . . "You're a bird person?"

Alfred guffawed from the vicinity of the den just beyond the open kitchen door as Arella gave him a look that plainly said, _I can't believe you just asked me such an asinine question. _It was possibly the first time he had ever felt stupid in his entire adult life.

"Do you believe in God, Mr. Wayne?"

"What does that have to do wi-"

"Nevermind. Let us say, for the sake of simplicity, that there was a God, a Higher Power, the Boss of everything Spiritual. He's quite the manager and has set down some very strict rules of engagement where the living, dead and everything between are concerned."

Bruce nodded, a signal for her to continue.

"Now, consider that some outside force interferes by creating a false body and stuffing an unwilling soul into the homunculus. How do you think God would deal with something like that?"

"I imagine a good manager would attempt to put a stop to the violation of his rules by either preventing the capture (after all, isn't God supposed to be omniscient?) or releasing the soul from captivity."

"And if He couldn't do that due to the very rules He had put in place?"

"Then . . . He would attempt to establish some measure of control over the situation or – at the very least – oversee the soul in question."

She nodded, allowing the bird to flit from her shoulder to perch and peck at her knuckles. "In traditional Christianity, doves are a symbol of divine agency. I've always had an affinity for them, and they have always had a special attraction to me. I'm not really sure why; but I digress . . . "

Cupping her tea in pale hands once again, she seemed to stare intently within the tawny depths of her tea. "When Trigon pulled my spirit from God, I didn't go willingly. Unfortunately, everything happened too fast to stop it in time. Once I was locked into this body, there were only two things God could do to make things fall even a little into my favor."

The dove suddenly flew out the open window, Arella's brown eyes following him watchfully. "Free will is a gift and cannot be taken away – a serious miscalculation on Trigon's part, thank goodness; and taking into account Trigon and Slade's aim was to control me and that they_couldn't_, the first thing God had to do was make certain that they couldn't trap my spirit _permanently_.

"I don't understand."

She sighed, and he wondered at how the sound had become so familiar. "Ghosts and poltergeists have one thing in common – they chose to remain. I did not. It was very possible that once Trigon and Slade realized I couldn't, wouldn't be their mindless servant, Trigon could have taken my soul and sent it to some other dimension or – at worst – destroyed it. God would not have been able to reach me then. I would have been the very definition of forsaken."

Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Bruce mulled over that one. He still wasn't quite sure where she was going with this line of theory (he refused to consider that she might be telling the honest truth), but his eyes seemed drawn to the dove who had returned shortly with a bit of frayed twine carried proudly in his beak.

"So . . . your soul was anchored through . . . a living agent."

She fairly beamed, if that were even possible. "Yes. This little guy is my spirit guide and anchor. He's also my communication line to God."

"If there is a God, and his character is similar to that professed in the Bible, why would you need a medium?"

"This body was made through the needless deaths of innocents. The darkness kneaded into the flesh shadows God's senses."

He smirked slightly. "Poetic."

"Why, thank you." She bowed her head mockingly, the gesture softened with her smile.

There was silence for a few moments as he resumed his breakfast, she gazed into her tea as if it held the answers to the universe, and Alfred's uncharacteristically loud and cheerful whistling filled the space between.

He found himself studying the way her hair fell, long and shimmering in waves of ebony; how her shoulders were straight and set with an almost militaristic sort of strength; and the seemingly practiced grace of her movements, the economy even in the manner she lifted a spoon to swirl the cooling tea.

"Why did you want me to wait?" It had been burning in his mind since the day she arrived. As a seasoned crime fighter, he had been ready to meet the threat head-on, to go straight to Jump and confront Raven despite his initial hesitation to get involved in his adopted son's chosen jurisdiction; however, Arella had stalled him with a cryptic warning, "It's not the right time."

"Ah . . . " The clink and drag of metal against porcelain as she slipped the spoon against the teacup rim seemed to echo. "I seem to remember . . . before I was . . . " She trailed off briefly as she squinted needlessly in his direction, visibly searching for the right word, ". . . resurrected, that the Titans returned home to find Raven had lost control. She was sedated and fell into a coma shortly after."

_Coma? _And Robin hadn't contacted him? It was completely undignified and slightly appalling but Bruce found himself gaping anyway. _Gaping_.

"You are gaping, Master Bruce." Alfred swept into the room with his usual calm and poise. "May I offer you another tea, Miss Roth?"

Arella giggled and for a moment, Bruce had to remind himself that she had died at 30 and that it had been seven years since then. "Thank you, Alfred, but I wouldn't want to put you through such senseless trouble." She returned her attention to him, her countenance turning serious. "Raven should be awake again in a few days. More help is coming."

There was something in the way she said it, something in her tone and the strangely tender quiver of her voice. He narrowed his eyes at her. "You're hiding something."

"I'm hiding everything, Mr. Wayne. Unfortunately for you, it's been a horribly rude habit of mine since I was a child." There was a definite hint of challenge in the purse of her lips, the slight rise of her chin.

An answering challenge burned his tongue, but he decided that such a response would only prolong their breakfast and keep him from legitimate business. Besides, he was a detective – one of the best. He would coax out her secrets given time and opportunity.

Pressing a napkin to his mouth, he watched her stand to take her tea to the sink. "Did you have plans today?"

She startled and turned to him, leaning against the dining room counter. "I thought I might spend some time in the garden. You have such lovely grounds here, and I can almost smell the flowers . . . "

He hmmed low in his throat, giving her the once over. She had been wearing that faded blue dress for days, and Alfred had reminded him this morning of a very important engagement tomorrow night. "Would you like to go shopping?"

"Shopping?"

"Shopping. There will be a gala held here tomorrow night. I was wondering if you would accompany me."

Understanding dawned, and she gave him a smile he had never seen before. It was almost _shy_. "I would love to . . . but we'll have to be careful."

"Understood. And when Raven wakes –"

That shy look evaporated as her mouth hardened with visible determination. "Then, we'll make our move."

_To be continued . . . _

Notes: This contains spoilers for the Walk on Water prequel 'Dove Gray'.

Arella and Bruce will be back in the forefront for another interlude soon enough as well as their own little segue 'Heaven Scent' which will go more in their VERY PLATONIC relationship within the WoW universe. (blame Emaniahilel)

Doves ARE a symbol of angelic/godly agency and not only in the Christian tradition. You'll see a LOT of bird imagery when Arella's around as a result.

This interlude takes place within and between chapters 3 and 4 of the main WoW timeline.


End file.
